Poetry V. 1
5 Haikus
Olivia Miles
#1
Fuzz touches my tongue
Sweetness from red-orange juice
Seeps out beneath flesh
#2
I hear a whisper
An eerie air fills the room
Cool breath chills my spine
#3
Water trickles slow
Across a stony stream and
Flows into abyss
#4
Face of white and black
Two hands that tell of the time
Cogs in perfect synch
#5
Liquid emotion
Compacted in clear droplets
Falling down my face
Olivia Miles
#1
Fuzz touches my tongue
Sweetness from red-orange juice
Seeps out beneath flesh
#2
I hear a whisper
An eerie air fills the room
Cool breath chills my spine
#3
Water trickles slow
Across a stony stream and
Flows into abyss
#4
Face of white and black
Two hands that tell of the time
Cogs in perfect synch
#5
Liquid emotion
Compacted in clear droplets
Falling down my face
Advice
Evan Harris
“You must change your life,” that’s what he had said,
Linoleum voice with an octagon head,
His words flew crooked from what I observed,
Consonants whirling while vowels swerved,
The ears didn’t want it, they’d seen enough,
Blocking the sound with that wet, waxy stuff,
But some had snuck in, planting seeds in the brain,
Stretching gray tissue without even a strain.
Evan Harris
“You must change your life,” that’s what he had said,
Linoleum voice with an octagon head,
His words flew crooked from what I observed,
Consonants whirling while vowels swerved,
The ears didn’t want it, they’d seen enough,
Blocking the sound with that wet, waxy stuff,
But some had snuck in, planting seeds in the brain,
Stretching gray tissue without even a strain.
Armor
Evan Harris
Time after time, you used it again,
Shielding yourself with one simple grin.
When the grin didn’t work, you brandished a smile,
It fit so well you even believed it a while.
The armory grew, the best weapon was laughter,
Only used during the fights, never seen again after.
Here’s the plate mail you made and look how it lies,
But there is a weak spot that looks through the eyes
Perhaps an arrow could just clear the slit,
With the head piercing through what blades can’t hit.
There will come a day that the knight will fall,
Shrouded in dark, never a knight at all.
Evan Harris
Time after time, you used it again,
Shielding yourself with one simple grin.
When the grin didn’t work, you brandished a smile,
It fit so well you even believed it a while.
The armory grew, the best weapon was laughter,
Only used during the fights, never seen again after.
Here’s the plate mail you made and look how it lies,
But there is a weak spot that looks through the eyes
Perhaps an arrow could just clear the slit,
With the head piercing through what blades can’t hit.
There will come a day that the knight will fall,
Shrouded in dark, never a knight at all.
Ashes to Dust
Devin Tant
At the start, who could have predicted the tears,
When every word you spoke could silence my fears?
I was drunk on potential, like my own Dionysus.
Too lost in thought to force the moment to crisis.
I wanted to give it my all, be my best,
which is hard to do when you rip the heart out my chest
See, I tried to be tinder but a spark of doubt
set us aflame - now I'm all burned out.
So please; make your jokes. Feel free to scoff.
Men reduced to ash now dust themselves off.
I hear you cry "Havoc!" and let slip dogs of war.
I guess that's one thing a bitch is good for.
But this isn't war, it's "Panic!" I'm singing,
Like 10 minutes past an alarm clock ringing
in the still of the night (What's 'still' I don't know)
I'm turning over thinking of seeds that you'd sow.
I can't say what it was, some alien force
that enticed you to yell until you went hoarse.
So get out of my way, go back to your trough.
Men reduced to ash now dust themselves off.
I thought 'If my cup runneth over, I'd use it to fill yours.'
Yet I found no cup behind all these closed doors.
I gave you up just like you gave it away.
Every saint has a past, every poet a cliché
Well hey, here's mine for good measure:
One man's trash is another man's pleasure.
Even though you left, I was right.
I was the symptom to which you were the blight.
You're a terminal disease; I saw blood in each cough.
You reduced me to ash, now watch me dust myself off.
Devin Tant
At the start, who could have predicted the tears,
When every word you spoke could silence my fears?
I was drunk on potential, like my own Dionysus.
Too lost in thought to force the moment to crisis.
I wanted to give it my all, be my best,
which is hard to do when you rip the heart out my chest
See, I tried to be tinder but a spark of doubt
set us aflame - now I'm all burned out.
So please; make your jokes. Feel free to scoff.
Men reduced to ash now dust themselves off.
I hear you cry "Havoc!" and let slip dogs of war.
I guess that's one thing a bitch is good for.
But this isn't war, it's "Panic!" I'm singing,
Like 10 minutes past an alarm clock ringing
in the still of the night (What's 'still' I don't know)
I'm turning over thinking of seeds that you'd sow.
I can't say what it was, some alien force
that enticed you to yell until you went hoarse.
So get out of my way, go back to your trough.
Men reduced to ash now dust themselves off.
I thought 'If my cup runneth over, I'd use it to fill yours.'
Yet I found no cup behind all these closed doors.
I gave you up just like you gave it away.
Every saint has a past, every poet a cliché
Well hey, here's mine for good measure:
One man's trash is another man's pleasure.
Even though you left, I was right.
I was the symptom to which you were the blight.
You're a terminal disease; I saw blood in each cough.
You reduced me to ash, now watch me dust myself off.
Automated
Devin Tant
Thank you for calling the Bureau of Civil Harmony:
Peaceful solutions for a violent world.
This call is being recorded for quality assurance purposes.
If you know your party's extension,
you may know too much.
Big brother's been here since before you existed,
And it's become the sum of all our fears.
Isn't it about time we resisted?
Weren't we supposed to throw our bodies on the gears?
Letters flash arrogantly across the screen,
assuring us all that we're free.
We're not just cogs left in the machine,
we're Artistic Autonomy.
For "The Betterment of The Nation"
we suffer from lives precluded.
And any thoughts of reclamation
are naught but dreams deluded.
What is Freedom? What is slavery?
But the whims of the ruling classes.
Is this stupidity, or is it bravery?
The cries of the angry masses.
For immediate incarceration, please push the envelope.
For more dire results, please press the issue.
Dial '0' to give up your options,
or hold on the line to speak to a representative.
Why, when men waste away
in the throes of minimum wage,
do we let ourselves be led astray
instead of giving in to rage?
This cause is more urgent each hour
so voice what you object.
We cannot allow perpetuation of power
to continue so unchecked.
They claim we seek only to infect the youth,
instead we tell them what awaited.
Nothing now, save the truth,
can save them from being automated.
This 'infection' has no cure, no remedy.
Undoubted, Death will take its toll.
But if we don't try to seize our destiny,
there'll be none left to control.
A team has been sent to your location.
Please, do not resist.
If you needed proof of their transgression,
you need only contradictions.
They claim no part in gilded oppression
as they hand out crucifixions.
If it's freedom you wish to attain,
you cannot avoid the violence.
But to live forever with a ball and chain
you need only offer them silence.
There's no hope for a solution,
save what's found on battlefields.
High is the cost of revolution,
paid with blood on riot shields.
Thank you again for calling the Bureau of Civil Harmony;
Peaceful solutions for a violent world.
Devin Tant
Thank you for calling the Bureau of Civil Harmony:
Peaceful solutions for a violent world.
This call is being recorded for quality assurance purposes.
If you know your party's extension,
you may know too much.
Big brother's been here since before you existed,
And it's become the sum of all our fears.
Isn't it about time we resisted?
Weren't we supposed to throw our bodies on the gears?
Letters flash arrogantly across the screen,
assuring us all that we're free.
We're not just cogs left in the machine,
we're Artistic Autonomy.
For "The Betterment of The Nation"
we suffer from lives precluded.
And any thoughts of reclamation
are naught but dreams deluded.
What is Freedom? What is slavery?
But the whims of the ruling classes.
Is this stupidity, or is it bravery?
The cries of the angry masses.
For immediate incarceration, please push the envelope.
For more dire results, please press the issue.
Dial '0' to give up your options,
or hold on the line to speak to a representative.
Why, when men waste away
in the throes of minimum wage,
do we let ourselves be led astray
instead of giving in to rage?
This cause is more urgent each hour
so voice what you object.
We cannot allow perpetuation of power
to continue so unchecked.
They claim we seek only to infect the youth,
instead we tell them what awaited.
Nothing now, save the truth,
can save them from being automated.
This 'infection' has no cure, no remedy.
Undoubted, Death will take its toll.
But if we don't try to seize our destiny,
there'll be none left to control.
A team has been sent to your location.
Please, do not resist.
If you needed proof of their transgression,
you need only contradictions.
They claim no part in gilded oppression
as they hand out crucifixions.
If it's freedom you wish to attain,
you cannot avoid the violence.
But to live forever with a ball and chain
you need only offer them silence.
There's no hope for a solution,
save what's found on battlefields.
High is the cost of revolution,
paid with blood on riot shields.
Thank you again for calling the Bureau of Civil Harmony;
Peaceful solutions for a violent world.
Beach Combing
Robert Westley
One day I stepped lightly
upon the ocean shore:
soft sand squished
beneath my feet-
I saw selfish
shellfish-
snap shut as
the ocean
swooshed in-
and whooshed out-
several sea birds
scuttling,
clawing at the sand
looking for something
tiny, quick, and tasty-
The sky splashed with
so many lovely colors:
reds and oranges-
and yellows, so
beautiful-
the sun setting
behind a fiery sea:
blissful serenity-
seemingly washed-
up on the shore-
to be shared by:
everything
Robert Westley
One day I stepped lightly
upon the ocean shore:
soft sand squished
beneath my feet-
I saw selfish
shellfish-
snap shut as
the ocean
swooshed in-
and whooshed out-
several sea birds
scuttling,
clawing at the sand
looking for something
tiny, quick, and tasty-
The sky splashed with
so many lovely colors:
reds and oranges-
and yellows, so
beautiful-
the sun setting
behind a fiery sea:
blissful serenity-
seemingly washed-
up on the shore-
to be shared by:
everything
Beyond the Veil
Devin Tant
I've often wondered just who's to blame
for all these things that we became.
They remind me that life is just a game
but I've lost all the pieces.
So how exactly should I engage
my audience from this dark stage?
With poems scrawled on crumpled page;
Words lost among the creases?
I tried to speak but nothing remains
except fingerprints in crimson stains.
What's the point of our growing pains
that ultimately fail?
Because lost are tales of vicious kings,
committing murders and other things,
on puppets strangled by their strings
soon sent beyond the veil.
With every second that I devote
I realize more that every note
is catching, choking, in the throat
like concessions for the play.
So it seems the deaf have come tonight
to hear the dumb and mute recite.
Yet they know that something isn't right
with this morbid cabaret.
Without the words, they judge instead
the character they see ahead:
"His clothes are trite, and it must be said-
He looks so drawn and pale."
Perhaps because he's sick and tired
of the dealers you so admired.
Their trade, at most, only required
travel beyond the veil.
So check and hope your heart's still beating,
because it will now be competing
with the regrets that are repeating
forever in your mind.
And after all the tears are cried
you'll realize that suicide
offered no real place to hide
as the veil swung shut behind.
You'll be trapped, alone, and in the dark,
stumbling, wishing to disembark.
There's no escaping the tyrant's mark
that both your hands impale.
You'll know by then that it's much too late;
You've self-inflicted your grisly fate.
Nothing better than life could await
us beyond the veil.
The music's playing, but the dancing has stopped.
No one knows how it started.
Perhaps we should focus, and resume the ball,
lest we become the dearly departed.
Devin Tant
I've often wondered just who's to blame
for all these things that we became.
They remind me that life is just a game
but I've lost all the pieces.
So how exactly should I engage
my audience from this dark stage?
With poems scrawled on crumpled page;
Words lost among the creases?
I tried to speak but nothing remains
except fingerprints in crimson stains.
What's the point of our growing pains
that ultimately fail?
Because lost are tales of vicious kings,
committing murders and other things,
on puppets strangled by their strings
soon sent beyond the veil.
With every second that I devote
I realize more that every note
is catching, choking, in the throat
like concessions for the play.
So it seems the deaf have come tonight
to hear the dumb and mute recite.
Yet they know that something isn't right
with this morbid cabaret.
Without the words, they judge instead
the character they see ahead:
"His clothes are trite, and it must be said-
He looks so drawn and pale."
Perhaps because he's sick and tired
of the dealers you so admired.
Their trade, at most, only required
travel beyond the veil.
So check and hope your heart's still beating,
because it will now be competing
with the regrets that are repeating
forever in your mind.
And after all the tears are cried
you'll realize that suicide
offered no real place to hide
as the veil swung shut behind.
You'll be trapped, alone, and in the dark,
stumbling, wishing to disembark.
There's no escaping the tyrant's mark
that both your hands impale.
You'll know by then that it's much too late;
You've self-inflicted your grisly fate.
Nothing better than life could await
us beyond the veil.
The music's playing, but the dancing has stopped.
No one knows how it started.
Perhaps we should focus, and resume the ball,
lest we become the dearly departed.
blessing
Kenneth West
i met a monk
in kathmandu
and this he said
is my blessing for you
i hope you’re as obstinate
as an ox
in pursuing your dreams
and never acquiesce
to the tug of the crowd
i hope you
retain your integrity
and always stand proud
i hope you
embrace all men
as brothers
for that is who we are
you have as many siblings
as there are stars
i hope you hold these stars
fixed in your heart
so that no matter where you
walk it never grows dark
i hope you remember
to release the butterflies
that flutter in your gut
and never stop searching but
remain aware that the sun
is the eye of god
and the wind is her caress
and she brings abiding rest
to all of the blessed
i hope you
accept from me
this garland of peace
Kenneth West
i met a monk
in kathmandu
and this he said
is my blessing for you
i hope you’re as obstinate
as an ox
in pursuing your dreams
and never acquiesce
to the tug of the crowd
i hope you
retain your integrity
and always stand proud
i hope you
embrace all men
as brothers
for that is who we are
you have as many siblings
as there are stars
i hope you hold these stars
fixed in your heart
so that no matter where you
walk it never grows dark
i hope you remember
to release the butterflies
that flutter in your gut
and never stop searching but
remain aware that the sun
is the eye of god
and the wind is her caress
and she brings abiding rest
to all of the blessed
i hope you
accept from me
this garland of peace
Careless Savior
Michelle Boudreau
There is a man makes me whole
He don't know what he does at all
And I hang on every graceful word he says
Each night before I go to sleep
I pray the Lord his soul to keep
Then ask God why he hurts me this way
Careless savior, careless savior
The only one in pain is me
I fought for life in an endless sea
And landed on the isle of punch-drunk lust
They say that love is give and take
This one wants to make my spirit break
But we took vows so what do we do now?
Careless savior, careless savior
Michelle Boudreau
There is a man makes me whole
He don't know what he does at all
And I hang on every graceful word he says
Each night before I go to sleep
I pray the Lord his soul to keep
Then ask God why he hurts me this way
Careless savior, careless savior
The only one in pain is me
I fought for life in an endless sea
And landed on the isle of punch-drunk lust
They say that love is give and take
This one wants to make my spirit break
But we took vows so what do we do now?
Careless savior, careless savior
christ at calvary
Kenneth West
he came to us
in a tattered tunic his
back beaten by our musings
our asphyxiated aspirations
of a utopia incapable
of conception ideas aborted
ripped from the womb
in its embryonic stages
while the thirst
for meaning rages
he wanted us to breathe deeper
so they bound him to a tree
in an act of irony
he came to preach a love
that liberates but perhaps
people prefer slavery to
the stumblings you must make
after you unshackle your
soul from the
pillar of materialism
a fawn taking its
first steps without
its mother’s nuzzlings
philosophy is a crown of thorns
the longer you wear it
the more you bleed but
i would gladly bleed what
is blood if not the
fluid of man’s bloated delusions
the pounding of nails drove
christ to agony
and on the cross
he discovered that we are
more than the elongated
sum of limbs and sinews
we are celestial
the sons of suns
we are luminous
Kenneth West
he came to us
in a tattered tunic his
back beaten by our musings
our asphyxiated aspirations
of a utopia incapable
of conception ideas aborted
ripped from the womb
in its embryonic stages
while the thirst
for meaning rages
he wanted us to breathe deeper
so they bound him to a tree
in an act of irony
he came to preach a love
that liberates but perhaps
people prefer slavery to
the stumblings you must make
after you unshackle your
soul from the
pillar of materialism
a fawn taking its
first steps without
its mother’s nuzzlings
philosophy is a crown of thorns
the longer you wear it
the more you bleed but
i would gladly bleed what
is blood if not the
fluid of man’s bloated delusions
the pounding of nails drove
christ to agony
and on the cross
he discovered that we are
more than the elongated
sum of limbs and sinews
we are celestial
the sons of suns
we are luminous
Clocks
Evan Harris
Beware their faces as they often deceive.
All of the minute details might escape
at first glance
When everything comes winding
down
through that mechanism of life
Make the most of it.
It is hours after all.
Evan Harris
Beware their faces as they often deceive.
All of the minute details might escape
at first glance
When everything comes winding
down
through that mechanism of life
Make the most of it.
It is hours after all.
Confused
Sarah Houten
Head spinning
Thoughts running through my mind
Trying to listen to everything at once
Waiting for a moment of silence
Wanting it all to end
Wishing to just hide
Wanting to get away
There is no way out
No way of running
No way of shutting my head down
These are the thoughts I live with.
Sarah Houten
Head spinning
Thoughts running through my mind
Trying to listen to everything at once
Waiting for a moment of silence
Wanting it all to end
Wishing to just hide
Wanting to get away
There is no way out
No way of running
No way of shutting my head down
These are the thoughts I live with.
The Crutch and Reality
Bianca Jackson
They drink and smoke to escape because sober this world is too much.
They are consuming liquor like water to drain out the emotion.
They take in the smoke like it is the oxygen our bodies need to survive.
They are hiding behind walls of substances to deplete the reality within their own existence.
They do not know they are only prolonging the trauma.
They feel so good when they are in their own world until the intoxication and cloud nine fades to the black and reality stabs them in the back.
They look around and those friends have disappeared and the liquor and substances no longer exist on that table in their face.
Their crutches no longer existence and they have to walk on that broken leg to keep up... when their own reality becomes too much then what?
Drinking and smoking may not be your crutch but imagine your life without that thing you need to get through a down day or your everyday life!
Would your reality be too much?
Bianca Jackson
They drink and smoke to escape because sober this world is too much.
They are consuming liquor like water to drain out the emotion.
They take in the smoke like it is the oxygen our bodies need to survive.
They are hiding behind walls of substances to deplete the reality within their own existence.
They do not know they are only prolonging the trauma.
They feel so good when they are in their own world until the intoxication and cloud nine fades to the black and reality stabs them in the back.
They look around and those friends have disappeared and the liquor and substances no longer exist on that table in their face.
Their crutches no longer existence and they have to walk on that broken leg to keep up... when their own reality becomes too much then what?
Drinking and smoking may not be your crutch but imagine your life without that thing you need to get through a down day or your everyday life!
Would your reality be too much?
The Dance
Lacey Hanemann
In a chair that rocks slightly,
enough to make distracted bodies think
they're falling, I sit.
Window open,
the world outside is moving,
dancing with the wind as if they're old lovers,
and I think maybe they are.
The trees rest, waiting always,
on something to make them tremble,
finding that only the breeze can
stir their roots.
The wind roams begging to be detected,
finding that only the trees can make its song heard.
A give and take fabrication that instead of taking,
gives more.
And I wonder when we’ll find the balance.
With appetitive souls that
scream louder than the spirit.
We are a being that wants,
and in determination finds means to
ease unjustified whimpering.
Lacey Hanemann
In a chair that rocks slightly,
enough to make distracted bodies think
they're falling, I sit.
Window open,
the world outside is moving,
dancing with the wind as if they're old lovers,
and I think maybe they are.
The trees rest, waiting always,
on something to make them tremble,
finding that only the breeze can
stir their roots.
The wind roams begging to be detected,
finding that only the trees can make its song heard.
A give and take fabrication that instead of taking,
gives more.
And I wonder when we’ll find the balance.
With appetitive souls that
scream louder than the spirit.
We are a being that wants,
and in determination finds means to
ease unjustified whimpering.
Dark Symphony of Keyboard Keys
A. B. Harrison
At my computer I sit in the solemn dark
With cast shadows lying still around me
As they watch me slowly write.
My eyes are fixated at the bright screen;
My mind stuck in an unwavering trance
With my clammy fingers hungrily
Tapping at the black plastic keys.
Words flood through my excited fingers
As I make the keyboard keys click away.
Slowly, but surely,
The once pale white screen is filling
With tiny, yet humble black letters
Forming bold and colorfully loud ideas,
Contaminating purity with a plague.
The room’s cold, crisp night air
Tickles me at the cheek and up my body
As goose bumps run down my skin. Still
I tap on, with words blazing in my mind.
The fragrant smell of day old coffee
Still lingers in the air and in my nostrils
As the rhythm of the keyboard plays
Like a dark symphony in my ears
As my frantic fingers beat away
Pulling images out of my head
Then staining them upon the page.
The room gets darker, my soul brighter,
With each keyboard key clicking away.
A. B. Harrison
At my computer I sit in the solemn dark
With cast shadows lying still around me
As they watch me slowly write.
My eyes are fixated at the bright screen;
My mind stuck in an unwavering trance
With my clammy fingers hungrily
Tapping at the black plastic keys.
Words flood through my excited fingers
As I make the keyboard keys click away.
Slowly, but surely,
The once pale white screen is filling
With tiny, yet humble black letters
Forming bold and colorfully loud ideas,
Contaminating purity with a plague.
The room’s cold, crisp night air
Tickles me at the cheek and up my body
As goose bumps run down my skin. Still
I tap on, with words blazing in my mind.
The fragrant smell of day old coffee
Still lingers in the air and in my nostrils
As the rhythm of the keyboard plays
Like a dark symphony in my ears
As my frantic fingers beat away
Pulling images out of my head
Then staining them upon the page.
The room gets darker, my soul brighter,
With each keyboard key clicking away.
Day Walk
ReAnna Rowden
Leaves
jive around plaza rod
and I pass them
wondering if, as creatures led in tandem,
they feel only providence
aside commands spit from foreign tongue.
ReAnna Rowden
Leaves
jive around plaza rod
and I pass them
wondering if, as creatures led in tandem,
they feel only providence
aside commands spit from foreign tongue.
Dear Paul Baulmer
Megan Jones
All's Quiet on the Western Front
Or so it may seem that all is none.
Another stool, another crib, another spineless green is done.
Where are the school boys you once knew?
Fighting for your home, but in Timbuktu.
Another unaided, another unfaded, another screw yet skewed and spewed.
How is your father? Your sister? Your mother?
On your way on leave, do you think about those others?
Another wines, another cries, and these naïve are sure to die.
But that’s the funniest bit of all!
How to cope when your “comrades” fall.
Weren’t you the vets, the honored, the best?
Another jest, another guess, another brother didn’t pass the test.
Your generation was simple but vast
Still will fall, but now the anger has passed.
Another soul, another taken, another…there will always be others.
How does it feel to be the last to die?
When you pray to God, do you look to the sky?
Another is brave, another is silenced, how long till you are another?
Bombs are flying, bullets will soar
But don’t you worry, for it is only war.
Another sorry, another sad, another weeping for their son is fled.
But that’s the funniest bit of all!
How to cope when you’re the last to fall?
Megan Jones
All's Quiet on the Western Front
Or so it may seem that all is none.
Another stool, another crib, another spineless green is done.
Where are the school boys you once knew?
Fighting for your home, but in Timbuktu.
Another unaided, another unfaded, another screw yet skewed and spewed.
How is your father? Your sister? Your mother?
On your way on leave, do you think about those others?
Another wines, another cries, and these naïve are sure to die.
But that’s the funniest bit of all!
How to cope when your “comrades” fall.
Weren’t you the vets, the honored, the best?
Another jest, another guess, another brother didn’t pass the test.
Your generation was simple but vast
Still will fall, but now the anger has passed.
Another soul, another taken, another…there will always be others.
How does it feel to be the last to die?
When you pray to God, do you look to the sky?
Another is brave, another is silenced, how long till you are another?
Bombs are flying, bullets will soar
But don’t you worry, for it is only war.
Another sorry, another sad, another weeping for their son is fled.
But that’s the funniest bit of all!
How to cope when you’re the last to fall?
A Delightful Hobby
Robert Westley
Here in my cellar
I set out tools of the trade
before me on a large clean table
a lifeless stranger is laid
I pick up the scalpel
in my nicely gloved hand
and I feel the skin splitting
as it slides across the man
cooling blood starts pooling
as I pierce the silent flesh
ruby red and beautiful
as well as nice and fresh
I like how it stains
makes everything
the same
great color
it drips onto the table
it sticks onto my gloves
and as I chop
and tweeze
and pull
the metal
in the bright
fluorescent light
turns red with all the rage
I chop the poor stiff up
late into the peaceful night
gaze into his lifeless eyes
and finish off this sight
All the little pieces
gently wrapped up in a bag
a sack of once-humanity
and light up a cancer fag
I think about morality
and how it has been viewed
I chuckle at my own bad joke
at the expense of this poor dude
I take him to a lonely freezer
and put him with the rest
thinking to myself,
‘Man, that was the best.’
Tearing off my bloody apron,
I hang it on the hook
I take a drag on my cigarette
and begin to clean my nook
I wipe the table
until it’s clean
and soak my tools
until they gleam
I climb back up into the light
and leave this pleasant place
to look for signs of dinner
that I smell my wife just made
Robert Westley
Here in my cellar
I set out tools of the trade
before me on a large clean table
a lifeless stranger is laid
I pick up the scalpel
in my nicely gloved hand
and I feel the skin splitting
as it slides across the man
cooling blood starts pooling
as I pierce the silent flesh
ruby red and beautiful
as well as nice and fresh
I like how it stains
makes everything
the same
great color
it drips onto the table
it sticks onto my gloves
and as I chop
and tweeze
and pull
the metal
in the bright
fluorescent light
turns red with all the rage
I chop the poor stiff up
late into the peaceful night
gaze into his lifeless eyes
and finish off this sight
All the little pieces
gently wrapped up in a bag
a sack of once-humanity
and light up a cancer fag
I think about morality
and how it has been viewed
I chuckle at my own bad joke
at the expense of this poor dude
I take him to a lonely freezer
and put him with the rest
thinking to myself,
‘Man, that was the best.’
Tearing off my bloody apron,
I hang it on the hook
I take a drag on my cigarette
and begin to clean my nook
I wipe the table
until it’s clean
and soak my tools
until they gleam
I climb back up into the light
and leave this pleasant place
to look for signs of dinner
that I smell my wife just made
Eclipse
Devin Tant
It's amazing, looking at the sun.
"You'll go blind" they tell me. "Don't look directly into it!"
But how can I not? My entire life circles around it. A looming
source of heat in an otherwise cold and dark existence.
"It's not worth it! You'll go blind!"
That's fine. I only had eyes for this reason anyway.
Yet now, something new has come up. The moon, impertinent and impetuous,
has turned this perfect source of life into nothing more than a glowing ring.
We never pay it any attention, until it's gone.
Devin Tant
It's amazing, looking at the sun.
"You'll go blind" they tell me. "Don't look directly into it!"
But how can I not? My entire life circles around it. A looming
source of heat in an otherwise cold and dark existence.
"It's not worth it! You'll go blind!"
That's fine. I only had eyes for this reason anyway.
Yet now, something new has come up. The moon, impertinent and impetuous,
has turned this perfect source of life into nothing more than a glowing ring.
We never pay it any attention, until it's gone.
extraneous solutions
Kenneth West
boredom is the alligator
inside of the elevator
writhing against the walls
suffocating on its own stench
limbs moving in vain
seeking freedom it can’t attain
newton, distraught
by life’s banality
tossed an apple in the air
an act of despair
and resuscitated from forgotten
waters a theory of originality
in old age newton’s
beloved gravity
in an act of depravity
seized his sleeve
and his universe ended
not with a bang
but with a sneeze
science’s labors
cannot know love’s favors
the pleasures of affairs
the treasures of drink
only repetition, elephant steps
discovery’s dull rhythms
poor newton’s angst never
expressed with stiff
formulas laid to rest
Kenneth West
boredom is the alligator
inside of the elevator
writhing against the walls
suffocating on its own stench
limbs moving in vain
seeking freedom it can’t attain
newton, distraught
by life’s banality
tossed an apple in the air
an act of despair
and resuscitated from forgotten
waters a theory of originality
in old age newton’s
beloved gravity
in an act of depravity
seized his sleeve
and his universe ended
not with a bang
but with a sneeze
science’s labors
cannot know love’s favors
the pleasures of affairs
the treasures of drink
only repetition, elephant steps
discovery’s dull rhythms
poor newton’s angst never
expressed with stiff
formulas laid to rest
The Eye of the Storm
Bianca Jackson
I stare in the face of danger and I do not even know it.
I’m blinded by my own love-meter.
Why does my heart always surrender?
Bound by laws and chains I created.
I created a monster that has a hold on me and I can't even hate it.
We were helping each other create these beautiful gigantic waves but I couldn't feel myself being swept away and pushed from the land.
I’m inhaling water and trying to fight the current.
As I’m being pushed further out to sea I realize the tragedy happening to me.
So while he took over my heart I fell victim to his deceit.
I couldn't see the storm rolling in while so focused on the waves and sunrise.
Now I'm stuck in this hurricane as it sweeps my life away!
I stared dead in the eye of storm too blinded by its beauty to see the damage it would until it was too late!
Bianca Jackson
I stare in the face of danger and I do not even know it.
I’m blinded by my own love-meter.
Why does my heart always surrender?
Bound by laws and chains I created.
I created a monster that has a hold on me and I can't even hate it.
We were helping each other create these beautiful gigantic waves but I couldn't feel myself being swept away and pushed from the land.
I’m inhaling water and trying to fight the current.
As I’m being pushed further out to sea I realize the tragedy happening to me.
So while he took over my heart I fell victim to his deceit.
I couldn't see the storm rolling in while so focused on the waves and sunrise.
Now I'm stuck in this hurricane as it sweeps my life away!
I stared dead in the eye of storm too blinded by its beauty to see the damage it would until it was too late!
Falling with Eyes Shut
A. B. Harrison
Two birds
Are calling
My name
In the distance.
Their chirps
Ring
Through my
Head like
A pair of
Church bells
Bringing me
To attention:
Alert.
The wind chills
My bones:
Unrelenting.
I sit wrapped
In tattered
Dreams
Torn from
Skin and
Turned to dust,
Left to
Blow away.
The park bench
I sit upon
Is all
I can call
My own
With a broken
Heart beating:
Alone.
I can feel
The world
Closing in:
Crushing.
I close
My eyes shut
As the birds
Chirp and
Bells ring.
Time stops,
And the world
Just
Falls.
A. B. Harrison
Two birds
Are calling
My name
In the distance.
Their chirps
Ring
Through my
Head like
A pair of
Church bells
Bringing me
To attention:
Alert.
The wind chills
My bones:
Unrelenting.
I sit wrapped
In tattered
Dreams
Torn from
Skin and
Turned to dust,
Left to
Blow away.
The park bench
I sit upon
Is all
I can call
My own
With a broken
Heart beating:
Alone.
I can feel
The world
Closing in:
Crushing.
I close
My eyes shut
As the birds
Chirp and
Bells ring.
Time stops,
And the world
Just
Falls.
Fireworks
Devin Tant
Do you remember the fireworks?
They were born from touch- human combustion at a primal level.
You had followed me into that field to watch them, feel them
Bursting with colors and scattering themselves wide as they’d reach
With a pop and sizzle that would echo against the mountainsides.
Your black powder eyelashes fluttered when you had said
These were your first fireworks, but it wasn’t their intention to lie
When you said you would never enjoy fireworks with another.
You could have said anything- we were fuses ready to explode,
Twisted, tangled, inextricably linked and loving every second of it.
Others would set off Roman Candles, bottle rockets and sparkles,
But no one gave a finale like you could. The sort of combination that
Echoed in your chest and left no doubt that this-
This was as good as it would get.
Devin Tant
Do you remember the fireworks?
They were born from touch- human combustion at a primal level.
You had followed me into that field to watch them, feel them
Bursting with colors and scattering themselves wide as they’d reach
With a pop and sizzle that would echo against the mountainsides.
Your black powder eyelashes fluttered when you had said
These were your first fireworks, but it wasn’t their intention to lie
When you said you would never enjoy fireworks with another.
You could have said anything- we were fuses ready to explode,
Twisted, tangled, inextricably linked and loving every second of it.
Others would set off Roman Candles, bottle rockets and sparkles,
But no one gave a finale like you could. The sort of combination that
Echoed in your chest and left no doubt that this-
This was as good as it would get.
Flannel and Linoleum
Cody McCullin
I am the son of Saturday morning.
My brothers, linoleum and flannel.
The last to ignore surgeon general warnings,
The first to sit down and change the channel.
Asphalt loved these elbows of mine,
My heart carried the other scars.
That was me balancing the fine line,
That was me in the field, gazing at stars.
Life came and found us in our world,
With our hearts still new, brought us to heel.
Colored eyes in red, white, and blue unfurled
To see an empty throne as we kneeled.
I am the father of nine to five,
His sister, a world uncertain.
Into grungy chords I often dive,
To pull back the flannel and linoleum curtain.
Cody McCullin
I am the son of Saturday morning.
My brothers, linoleum and flannel.
The last to ignore surgeon general warnings,
The first to sit down and change the channel.
Asphalt loved these elbows of mine,
My heart carried the other scars.
That was me balancing the fine line,
That was me in the field, gazing at stars.
Life came and found us in our world,
With our hearts still new, brought us to heel.
Colored eyes in red, white, and blue unfurled
To see an empty throne as we kneeled.
I am the father of nine to five,
His sister, a world uncertain.
Into grungy chords I often dive,
To pull back the flannel and linoleum curtain.
Foolish for Him
Kierria Matthews
Foolish for him
Doing things that are silly
Smiling stupidly, gaily giggling
Dumbly daydreaming
Of him and me
Foolish for him
Thinking of him
How it's just "me"
But I want "we"
Just him and me
Foolish for him
Stumbling over words
Nervously laughing
Awkward yet charming
Yes, this is me
Foolish for him
His eyes, his smile
His voice, his laugh
Smooth yet comforting
Can we be, him and me?
Foolish for him
Falling for him
Addicted to him
Longing for him
Hugging him
Kissing him
Just him and me
Foolish for him
Constantly crying
Damned depression
Crippled confession
Why him and me?
Foolish for him
Released sorrows
No more tears
Not worth crying for
Silly, stupid me
Kierria Matthews
Foolish for him
Doing things that are silly
Smiling stupidly, gaily giggling
Dumbly daydreaming
Of him and me
Foolish for him
Thinking of him
How it's just "me"
But I want "we"
Just him and me
Foolish for him
Stumbling over words
Nervously laughing
Awkward yet charming
Yes, this is me
Foolish for him
His eyes, his smile
His voice, his laugh
Smooth yet comforting
Can we be, him and me?
Foolish for him
Falling for him
Addicted to him
Longing for him
Hugging him
Kissing him
Just him and me
Foolish for him
Constantly crying
Damned depression
Crippled confession
Why him and me?
Foolish for him
Released sorrows
No more tears
Not worth crying for
Silly, stupid me
Forest of Nameless Creatures
A. B. Harrison
Into the forest of dark shadows
Where evil lurks in hidden burrows
I find myself in utter defeat
By journey’s vile act of deceit.
Once deep inside its cold, wet maze,
Fears, like kindling, are set ablaze.
Nights are haunted, nameless creatures,
Those who roam with wicked features.
Days are long but who can tell,
With this dark forest’s ingenious spell:
Dense canopy captures and destroys
Whatever hopes the sun deploys.
It would be foolish of me to deny
That in this spider trap I am the fly.
Tricked by the couple at the Jolly Fern,
Those who enter unaware never return.
Here I am, cold, scared, wishing I knew
What more I was getting myself into:
Nameless creatures that haunt the night,
Those who take, prey, trick, and bite;
Plants whose silent vines twist and turn,
Silencing prey without concern.
Here I STAND, as I tremble and shout,
Stuck in a maze, with no way out.
A. B. Harrison
Into the forest of dark shadows
Where evil lurks in hidden burrows
I find myself in utter defeat
By journey’s vile act of deceit.
Once deep inside its cold, wet maze,
Fears, like kindling, are set ablaze.
Nights are haunted, nameless creatures,
Those who roam with wicked features.
Days are long but who can tell,
With this dark forest’s ingenious spell:
Dense canopy captures and destroys
Whatever hopes the sun deploys.
It would be foolish of me to deny
That in this spider trap I am the fly.
Tricked by the couple at the Jolly Fern,
Those who enter unaware never return.
Here I am, cold, scared, wishing I knew
What more I was getting myself into:
Nameless creatures that haunt the night,
Those who take, prey, trick, and bite;
Plants whose silent vines twist and turn,
Silencing prey without concern.
Here I STAND, as I tremble and shout,
Stuck in a maze, with no way out.
Ghost Story
Lacey Hanemann
With no anticipation of halting pace,
my body froze,
soul hitting
then resonating off my chest
backwards into my heels,
“Hallie,”
That’s all he said;
my name rose up from some place
he had buried away next to
childhood scraped knees
and the high school girl
who wouldn’t kiss him
when he loved her
and the woman
who scorned him when
he didn’t.
“Hallie.”
That’s all he said,
as if he had stood, before,
looking down at my casket,
as if his muscles strained
to grip the rope that lowered me
into the ground one dark day in his past.
“Hallie.”
That’s all he said,
and I felt as though
I was a ghost,
shoes caught in tar,
only existing in the increments of breaths
that fall out and whisper, “Hallie”
Lacey Hanemann
With no anticipation of halting pace,
my body froze,
soul hitting
then resonating off my chest
backwards into my heels,
“Hallie,”
That’s all he said;
my name rose up from some place
he had buried away next to
childhood scraped knees
and the high school girl
who wouldn’t kiss him
when he loved her
and the woman
who scorned him when
he didn’t.
“Hallie.”
That’s all he said,
as if he had stood, before,
looking down at my casket,
as if his muscles strained
to grip the rope that lowered me
into the ground one dark day in his past.
“Hallie.”
That’s all he said,
and I felt as though
I was a ghost,
shoes caught in tar,
only existing in the increments of breaths
that fall out and whisper, “Hallie”
The Gift
Matt Parrish
What is that aroma
that compels me to search
As the bird eyes me warily from atop its tall perch?
It envelopes and cradles me in its familiar embrace
and wraps me up tight with its elegant grace.
What is that aroma
that begs me to follow?
My nose to the ground like a hound in the hollow.
Wait! Stop! I know that scent!
Is it you?
It simply MUST be!
My heart swells with the possibility.
No, my love, it is not I.
I fly with the angels. I watch you cry.
You can follow your nose but you will only find
that I have left your world behind.
No, my dear, I am not there
but I left you a gift that floats through the air.
The answer you seek can be found on that bush;
a gardenia blossom to give you a push.
When you long for my touch
turn your nose to the air
and if the blossom is blooming
it will be just like I’m there.
Matt Parrish
What is that aroma
that compels me to search
As the bird eyes me warily from atop its tall perch?
It envelopes and cradles me in its familiar embrace
and wraps me up tight with its elegant grace.
What is that aroma
that begs me to follow?
My nose to the ground like a hound in the hollow.
Wait! Stop! I know that scent!
Is it you?
It simply MUST be!
My heart swells with the possibility.
No, my love, it is not I.
I fly with the angels. I watch you cry.
You can follow your nose but you will only find
that I have left your world behind.
No, my dear, I am not there
but I left you a gift that floats through the air.
The answer you seek can be found on that bush;
a gardenia blossom to give you a push.
When you long for my touch
turn your nose to the air
and if the blossom is blooming
it will be just like I’m there.
Glass Nativity
Parker Carwile
None may touch this perfect, pristine,
Mirror-based nativity.
Carved in glass, each figurine,
Fragile and vacant, cannot redeem.
The stable dirt remains unseen
For processed glass brings clarity.
Looking down upon the scene,
For enlightenment in Heaven’s King,
The crystal myths are overseen
By reflected flesh so vain.
Eyes must advert to keep Christ clean
For they warp the beauty of rescuing.
So better left in a solid screen
Of sturdy glass, this nativity,
For filth hands will soil the sheen
Of cold Mary’s, faceless gleam.
So fine a thing for dust to glean,
But what a breakable, Bible
Inadequacy!
Parker Carwile
None may touch this perfect, pristine,
Mirror-based nativity.
Carved in glass, each figurine,
Fragile and vacant, cannot redeem.
The stable dirt remains unseen
For processed glass brings clarity.
Looking down upon the scene,
For enlightenment in Heaven’s King,
The crystal myths are overseen
By reflected flesh so vain.
Eyes must advert to keep Christ clean
For they warp the beauty of rescuing.
So better left in a solid screen
Of sturdy glass, this nativity,
For filth hands will soil the sheen
Of cold Mary’s, faceless gleam.
So fine a thing for dust to glean,
But what a breakable, Bible
Inadequacy!
The Good Life
Lacey Hanemann
At times it seems
I understand it,
most of it,
that I can find its eyes
in the night,
or hear its song
playing gently in the
background
of every
background.
But I don’t
understand even
a strand of it,
and I know it
and it knows it,
only letting me pretend
for a moment that
I see it.
I think some nights,
“Oh that’s it;
hear it
in the blackbird’s song?”
and my mind answers
“No, that’s just a
drunk crying
in the room above
yours.”
And then I say,
“Oh,”
and fall back asleep.
Lacey Hanemann
At times it seems
I understand it,
most of it,
that I can find its eyes
in the night,
or hear its song
playing gently in the
background
of every
background.
But I don’t
understand even
a strand of it,
and I know it
and it knows it,
only letting me pretend
for a moment that
I see it.
I think some nights,
“Oh that’s it;
hear it
in the blackbird’s song?”
and my mind answers
“No, that’s just a
drunk crying
in the room above
yours.”
And then I say,
“Oh,”
and fall back asleep.
The Growing End
Parker Carwile
I spot a ring of golden thread--
Fixed upon my finger--
Dare I not pull the gentle string
Who dies without me--
Time creeps—the crawling twine—it sneaks
Past my better eye—rising
Up my arm, but like angel hair--
Dare I not tear this snare--
The angry web climbs—climbs—with Time
And up--up it goes my neck—l
Dare I not yank this witch’s hair--
I die without this vine--
Surrounded—too late to turn--
Thirsty veins start to seize my face--
The devil’s guts gouge my narrow sight--
I lay as twisted lace.
Parker Carwile
I spot a ring of golden thread--
Fixed upon my finger--
Dare I not pull the gentle string
Who dies without me--
Time creeps—the crawling twine—it sneaks
Past my better eye—rising
Up my arm, but like angel hair--
Dare I not tear this snare--
The angry web climbs—climbs—with Time
And up--up it goes my neck—l
Dare I not yank this witch’s hair--
I die without this vine--
Surrounded—too late to turn--
Thirsty veins start to seize my face--
The devil’s guts gouge my narrow sight--
I lay as twisted lace.
The Heart in its Cage
A. B. Harrison
As a painting depicted in colors of love:
Red crimson and holy white, travel
Flowing immortal through time.
Two walk together in perfect stride,
Hand in hand along fields of daffodil.
Each mile of open pasture to devour
Through sight and smell as the couple
Sails to their consummation spot
On floral waves of yellow and orange.
Looking over at his blushing new bride
His heart is powerless to Cupid’s will.
Her long strapless white dress clings
To the slight curves of her tall frame.
Her braided blonde hair draped over
Freckled shoulders: sun bathed skin
And tied together in two red ribbons.
Whicker picnic basket in one small hand,
His warm grasp intertwined in the other.
The feel of his newly ringed finger
Sends a grin to form and lie
Comfortably about her made up face.
Forever bound as one this nuptial day
His heart is hers; her life is his endlessly.
Their footsteps beat harmoniously
Like music over the smooth stone way.
Her long silk veil flows in the wind as
The two start to run for cover as distant
Dark clouds hold rain in giant hands
Over the fields in the distant county.
A quant cottage resides over the hills
About two miles but neither can see it.
Bride starts to worry; her groom begins
To pant and loosen his sweat soaked tie.
Inside his chest under a suit three pieces
The heart beats in its cage, irregular.
Pounding bruised arms against the bars
As if trying desperately to be set free,
To escape its confounds and embrace
The woman of its little heart dreams.
Its vessels pounding, hardly keeping up.
The man tumbles. Hands break apart.
He crawls a few feet and sits speechless
Under the limbs of a red apple tree;
The storm fully engulfing the sun.
The painting turns dark: colors of grief.
Lightning strikes; tree cracks overhead.
The man’s bride falls to her knees
Upon apples long fallen, now rotten.
Rain starts to pour uncontrollable
As if the angels were to weep
While their cold, icy tears start to turn
Her beautiful ivory dress translucent.
Her heart begins to break, pounding
In her slim white chest rapidly.
She wraps her arms around his neck.
While his hands clutch his chest
Then fall . . . limp.
Tears begin to roll down her face
Like streaks of black water paint
Upon her pale canvas of a face.
The bride opens. Erupts.
Screams in agony. In horror.
But is muffled by the overhead thunder.
Far away from distant folk
Not a soul is able to hear her despair
Of two hearts breaking in their own.
Each is broken like a porcelain doll.
A smashed chest lies gaping;
Hearts lost forever in an abyssal crater.
A. B. Harrison
As a painting depicted in colors of love:
Red crimson and holy white, travel
Flowing immortal through time.
Two walk together in perfect stride,
Hand in hand along fields of daffodil.
Each mile of open pasture to devour
Through sight and smell as the couple
Sails to their consummation spot
On floral waves of yellow and orange.
Looking over at his blushing new bride
His heart is powerless to Cupid’s will.
Her long strapless white dress clings
To the slight curves of her tall frame.
Her braided blonde hair draped over
Freckled shoulders: sun bathed skin
And tied together in two red ribbons.
Whicker picnic basket in one small hand,
His warm grasp intertwined in the other.
The feel of his newly ringed finger
Sends a grin to form and lie
Comfortably about her made up face.
Forever bound as one this nuptial day
His heart is hers; her life is his endlessly.
Their footsteps beat harmoniously
Like music over the smooth stone way.
Her long silk veil flows in the wind as
The two start to run for cover as distant
Dark clouds hold rain in giant hands
Over the fields in the distant county.
A quant cottage resides over the hills
About two miles but neither can see it.
Bride starts to worry; her groom begins
To pant and loosen his sweat soaked tie.
Inside his chest under a suit three pieces
The heart beats in its cage, irregular.
Pounding bruised arms against the bars
As if trying desperately to be set free,
To escape its confounds and embrace
The woman of its little heart dreams.
Its vessels pounding, hardly keeping up.
The man tumbles. Hands break apart.
He crawls a few feet and sits speechless
Under the limbs of a red apple tree;
The storm fully engulfing the sun.
The painting turns dark: colors of grief.
Lightning strikes; tree cracks overhead.
The man’s bride falls to her knees
Upon apples long fallen, now rotten.
Rain starts to pour uncontrollable
As if the angels were to weep
While their cold, icy tears start to turn
Her beautiful ivory dress translucent.
Her heart begins to break, pounding
In her slim white chest rapidly.
She wraps her arms around his neck.
While his hands clutch his chest
Then fall . . . limp.
Tears begin to roll down her face
Like streaks of black water paint
Upon her pale canvas of a face.
The bride opens. Erupts.
Screams in agony. In horror.
But is muffled by the overhead thunder.
Far away from distant folk
Not a soul is able to hear her despair
Of two hearts breaking in their own.
Each is broken like a porcelain doll.
A smashed chest lies gaping;
Hearts lost forever in an abyssal crater.
Heart’s Travels: A Love Ghazal
A. B. Harrison
Embedded in my chest rests a stain of love,
For there is no greater pain, than the pain of love.
Life’s most treasured moments do exist
When one travels along the lane of love.
Butterflies will flutter inside our hearts
As we travelers travel the terrain of love.
Our titanic mountains turn to tiny plains
While we are ruled by the reign of love.
For lugubrious souls do find exuberance
When shackled in a chain of love.
A. B. Harrison
Embedded in my chest rests a stain of love,
For there is no greater pain, than the pain of love.
Life’s most treasured moments do exist
When one travels along the lane of love.
Butterflies will flutter inside our hearts
As we travelers travel the terrain of love.
Our titanic mountains turn to tiny plains
While we are ruled by the reign of love.
For lugubrious souls do find exuberance
When shackled in a chain of love.
Her body fell lifeless onto the bed
Dalton Russell
Her body fell lifeless onto the bed
Feeling like her life was a minefield
And she had magnetic shoes.
She buried her face into the pillow and screamed
As the mascara fleeted from her eyes
Staining masterpieces of sorrow
On a white canvas.
Dalton Russell
Her body fell lifeless onto the bed
Feeling like her life was a minefield
And she had magnetic shoes.
She buried her face into the pillow and screamed
As the mascara fleeted from her eyes
Staining masterpieces of sorrow
On a white canvas.
I eat from the loaves
Trey Dees
I eat from the loaves.
I drink from the well.
But what does it mean?
Do I walk as he walked?
Do I live as he lived?
If not, then what purpose remains?
A vision without action is naught but an idea.
And of what worth is an idea alone?
It is only a thought,
An overlooked suggestion.
And so the question remains:
Do I live as you lived,
Or am I living a lie?
Trey Dees
I eat from the loaves.
I drink from the well.
But what does it mean?
Do I walk as he walked?
Do I live as he lived?
If not, then what purpose remains?
A vision without action is naught but an idea.
And of what worth is an idea alone?
It is only a thought,
An overlooked suggestion.
And so the question remains:
Do I live as you lived,
Or am I living a lie?
if i were your mirror
Kenneth West
if i were your mirror
i would awaken you
each morning
with musings of your winsomeness
of my longing to wrap
myself in the curls
of your luscious hair
and suffocate slowly
with your sweet smelling locks
around my neck
or how your eyes
look exactly how i had
envisioned the first sunset
with the novitiate star
shining lustrous light all
around reflecting even the
tint of the tree leaves
if i were your mirror
i would remind you
that your smile
has more magic than
india’s ancient mantras
and araby’s enchantments
if i were your mirror
i would pine and whine
through the inclement night
starving for the sensation
of your warm breath
upon my glassy surface
Kenneth West
if i were your mirror
i would awaken you
each morning
with musings of your winsomeness
of my longing to wrap
myself in the curls
of your luscious hair
and suffocate slowly
with your sweet smelling locks
around my neck
or how your eyes
look exactly how i had
envisioned the first sunset
with the novitiate star
shining lustrous light all
around reflecting even the
tint of the tree leaves
if i were your mirror
i would remind you
that your smile
has more magic than
india’s ancient mantras
and araby’s enchantments
if i were your mirror
i would pine and whine
through the inclement night
starving for the sensation
of your warm breath
upon my glassy surface
I found her in the wreckage
Dalton Russell
I found her in the wreckage.
Her world had collapsed into rubble.
I built new cities within her mind to live
Only they could not harbor us both.
She is the West
And I am the East.
Cursed to always be apart.
Her heart no longer had a home.
Dalton Russell
I found her in the wreckage.
Her world had collapsed into rubble.
I built new cities within her mind to live
Only they could not harbor us both.
She is the West
And I am the East.
Cursed to always be apart.
Her heart no longer had a home.
Infatuation in Autumn
ReAnna Rowden
Infatuation in autumn is hope
encroaching toward meandering mortal
that by enrapture:
use
of another,
frost can be forgotten
as it settles
and wedges beneath tract.
Be damned
minute hour.
or relapse.
ReAnna Rowden
Infatuation in autumn is hope
encroaching toward meandering mortal
that by enrapture:
use
of another,
frost can be forgotten
as it settles
and wedges beneath tract.
Be damned
minute hour.
or relapse.
A Journey that I missed
Abhishek Panchal
There was a house atop a cliff,
Perched amongst the winds swift;
My eyes took in the scenery,
Ear heeded to the symphony,
So, my nose said to me,
‘Why don’t we get a sniff?’
So on and on my little feet went
My, what an aroma simmered through the vent!
The board said, ‘Childhood on rent’
On and on, inside I went
The years I spent there were glee
But they passed by in a spree
The sights now enchanted me no more
So I decided to cross the door.
‘Halt!’, said the Housekeeper,
‘No leave without paying your debt’
Irately, I replied
‘Only to you, this knowledge you kept!
Free me at once, aside you step!’
But He was adamant even when I wept
He made me toil, he made me sweat,
Tending to the joys in which I slept.
And when He was bored of me,
Off the cliff he tossed me free!
Down, down and down I dropped
On hard land I stopped
Everything was black, white and grey,
I asked a passer-by, ‘the city of ‘Adulthood’ we say.’
Here, there were no woods, no grass
Everything was dull, coarse and crass.
My feet grew sore walking on the street
And then it hit me like a lightning streak!!
I had skipped the garden of youth,
I had missed the meadow of youth
In my toil and in my sweat,
Time had got the better of me
Never will I sip from the fountain
Never will I taste the apple
That lie in the midst of greens.
I have crossed over the years, it seems.
Abhishek Panchal
There was a house atop a cliff,
Perched amongst the winds swift;
My eyes took in the scenery,
Ear heeded to the symphony,
So, my nose said to me,
‘Why don’t we get a sniff?’
So on and on my little feet went
My, what an aroma simmered through the vent!
The board said, ‘Childhood on rent’
On and on, inside I went
The years I spent there were glee
But they passed by in a spree
The sights now enchanted me no more
So I decided to cross the door.
‘Halt!’, said the Housekeeper,
‘No leave without paying your debt’
Irately, I replied
‘Only to you, this knowledge you kept!
Free me at once, aside you step!’
But He was adamant even when I wept
He made me toil, he made me sweat,
Tending to the joys in which I slept.
And when He was bored of me,
Off the cliff he tossed me free!
Down, down and down I dropped
On hard land I stopped
Everything was black, white and grey,
I asked a passer-by, ‘the city of ‘Adulthood’ we say.’
Here, there were no woods, no grass
Everything was dull, coarse and crass.
My feet grew sore walking on the street
And then it hit me like a lightning streak!!
I had skipped the garden of youth,
I had missed the meadow of youth
In my toil and in my sweat,
Time had got the better of me
Never will I sip from the fountain
Never will I taste the apple
That lie in the midst of greens.
I have crossed over the years, it seems.
Lux
Michelle Boudreau
Distance is a distraction
Location restricts the body
Nothing restricts the spirit
It’s free to live anywhere
Because we are the light
We were the stars that dimmed
And we were not forgotten
Instead reborn; together
When again we fade
We will rise again from the ashes
You will always be with me
Even when you are not
Time and distance may be present
Only as obstacles
When you need warmth
Feel my luminosity from across the sky
Michelle Boudreau
Distance is a distraction
Location restricts the body
Nothing restricts the spirit
It’s free to live anywhere
Because we are the light
We were the stars that dimmed
And we were not forgotten
Instead reborn; together
When again we fade
We will rise again from the ashes
You will always be with me
Even when you are not
Time and distance may be present
Only as obstacles
When you need warmth
Feel my luminosity from across the sky
Lying With the Dark
Parker Carwile
Get the lights;
We want to hide.
We know what
You want inside.
Just come closer;
Better blind--
To feel around.
We don’t mind.
Shut your thoughts
To shut your eyes.
It’s not real.
Just lie
Down,
Down,
And die.
Parker Carwile
Get the lights;
We want to hide.
We know what
You want inside.
Just come closer;
Better blind--
To feel around.
We don’t mind.
Shut your thoughts
To shut your eyes.
It’s not real.
Just lie
Down,
Down,
And die.
Metaphor
Savannah Woods
Metaphor
Makes method of madness.
Prodigious poetry
Placates the masses.
Mendacious politicians
Make people millions;
Melting pot politics
Not made for civilians.
Pernicious persons
Make penurious nations;
Prosperous prospects
Not meant for our stations.
Maniacal media
Makes meaningless protagonists.
Amateur poetry
Shows methodical antagonists.
Savannah Woods
Metaphor
Makes method of madness.
Prodigious poetry
Placates the masses.
Mendacious politicians
Make people millions;
Melting pot politics
Not made for civilians.
Pernicious persons
Make penurious nations;
Prosperous prospects
Not meant for our stations.
Maniacal media
Makes meaningless protagonists.
Amateur poetry
Shows methodical antagonists.
Mimi
Jennifer Haley
Old woman,
why do you sit slumped in your chair,
withered and faded like the garden
you stare at through you dusty,
translucent-brown window?
Old woman rise,
pick up your tawny-rusted spade,
wear your red-faded-pink kerchief,
use your matriarchal hands again,
and recapture your mother-earth spirit.
Old woman rise exuberantly,
plunge your hands in the dirt,
feel the sweat run down your face.
Let it renew your shriveled soul.
Jennifer Haley
Old woman,
why do you sit slumped in your chair,
withered and faded like the garden
you stare at through you dusty,
translucent-brown window?
Old woman rise,
pick up your tawny-rusted spade,
wear your red-faded-pink kerchief,
use your matriarchal hands again,
and recapture your mother-earth spirit.
Old woman rise exuberantly,
plunge your hands in the dirt,
feel the sweat run down your face.
Let it renew your shriveled soul.
Modest Considerations
Dillon Nelson
A chance to prove wit sends your heart aflutter.
You, yearning to let ideas twirl and tumble.
Synapses soaring, you spit and sputter.
The master asking the meaning of the word “humble”
A quick, thick question is posed,
But you use pen and pad to try and sketch it.
You say, “An evident answer’s close!”
But use a drawn out method to fetch it.
You’re left to fret and stutter;
As the question is answered and past,
You start to shout but only mutter,
Stuttering as you “damn it” with a “blast!”
The chance was rip and had risen,
But passed! You’ve held out your tongue
Trying the scope on the horizon widening
What was expressly needed, is quickly left unsung.
You rave and you rant, only on the inside
And yet, with pursed lips, let sweat sting your eyes
Subtly shaking your head and choking down pride.
Vehemently praying to nothing,
Cursing the blue in the skies,
And all answers to any amount of “whys.”
While looking from peer to peer,
Feeling fear at perceived leers,
They seem to simper at such impotent temper.
Even the master joins in with the jeers,
Points his finger here and here
Singing in your ear
A disheartening timbre.
So with thoughts swimming and your arm erect
And excitement in your face scarlet, flushed:
Anxiety sways circumspect.
You’re called to answer,
“Never mind,”
And are hushed
Dillon Nelson
A chance to prove wit sends your heart aflutter.
You, yearning to let ideas twirl and tumble.
Synapses soaring, you spit and sputter.
The master asking the meaning of the word “humble”
A quick, thick question is posed,
But you use pen and pad to try and sketch it.
You say, “An evident answer’s close!”
But use a drawn out method to fetch it.
You’re left to fret and stutter;
As the question is answered and past,
You start to shout but only mutter,
Stuttering as you “damn it” with a “blast!”
The chance was rip and had risen,
But passed! You’ve held out your tongue
Trying the scope on the horizon widening
What was expressly needed, is quickly left unsung.
You rave and you rant, only on the inside
And yet, with pursed lips, let sweat sting your eyes
Subtly shaking your head and choking down pride.
Vehemently praying to nothing,
Cursing the blue in the skies,
And all answers to any amount of “whys.”
While looking from peer to peer,
Feeling fear at perceived leers,
They seem to simper at such impotent temper.
Even the master joins in with the jeers,
Points his finger here and here
Singing in your ear
A disheartening timbre.
So with thoughts swimming and your arm erect
And excitement in your face scarlet, flushed:
Anxiety sways circumspect.
You’re called to answer,
“Never mind,”
And are hushed
Morning Cup of Coffee
Zoe Stone
And they all stood and told stories of past loves
and part of their hearts spoke words eloquently
and bounced off the ears of strangers
all held together with love instead of fear.
We were all bound together,
the people who show me more about myself than a mirror,
bound together with old songs.
Dirty mirrors and the cemetery sing-alongs.
Hands held on winter’s first chill,
our spine hairs raised and the parts of our lungs
that were destined to speak of old broke down heart-aches,
the winter brought out the best in us,
and pushed us down until only feelings were left.
We learned to love the depressed mind
and plant flowers around it and
bind it and intertwine it in the spine of another.
We all carry this thing above us
and it makes sense when we meet,
I see it in you and you see it in me.
We carry these things under our bones
locked away in those hidden diaries of a fifth grade past,
little sister’s peering eyes into the secret stories
of first kisses and beer wishes.
Pipe dreams and stitched up seams
in the dresses once made long.
Once summer ends
we push up all of our dead ends
and stories of pretend,
morphing minds
and pouring into each other
like morning cups of coffee.
Zoe Stone
And they all stood and told stories of past loves
and part of their hearts spoke words eloquently
and bounced off the ears of strangers
all held together with love instead of fear.
We were all bound together,
the people who show me more about myself than a mirror,
bound together with old songs.
Dirty mirrors and the cemetery sing-alongs.
Hands held on winter’s first chill,
our spine hairs raised and the parts of our lungs
that were destined to speak of old broke down heart-aches,
the winter brought out the best in us,
and pushed us down until only feelings were left.
We learned to love the depressed mind
and plant flowers around it and
bind it and intertwine it in the spine of another.
We all carry this thing above us
and it makes sense when we meet,
I see it in you and you see it in me.
We carry these things under our bones
locked away in those hidden diaries of a fifth grade past,
little sister’s peering eyes into the secret stories
of first kisses and beer wishes.
Pipe dreams and stitched up seams
in the dresses once made long.
Once summer ends
we push up all of our dead ends
and stories of pretend,
morphing minds
and pouring into each other
like morning cups of coffee.
Mouse Trap
A. B. Harrison
Helpless and small.
Under the sink and in the open cabinet
Stuck between two black glue traps
It lingers captive waiting for us.
Its little white legs scurry in place.
Its haunting squeaks echo in the room,
A painful nightmare for listeners to bear.
Helpless and defeated.
The mouse calls out in its shrill voice
As if to beg for mercy to those who
Linger about and watch in horror
Or to bid farewell to those he loves
Who wait horrified behind the wall.
I get onto one knee to assess the damage.
The mouse’s body frantically squirms
With its mangled and torn abdomen
Cemented in gluey strands to each
Foul and cruel death-dealing board.
Its mutilated grey fur torn from its flesh.
Blood trickling from its mouth.
Helpless and scared.
It looks up at me like a caught prey
With black beady eyes radiating sorrow
Waiting for the sticky pain to stop.
Folks start growing tired of seeing
The mouse they had caught in pain and
Beg for me to put it out of its misery.
I do not want to kill the mouse, but
Neither do I want it to suffer any longer.
Gently, I pick up the traps and the mouse
With my hands and slowly place them
Inside the white plastic bag that waits.
I pick up the bag as the mouse squeals.
I walk outside to the back of the building
And gently place the bag upon the street.
Opening up the bag, the mouse stares
As our eyes meet in joint horror.
Tenderly, I open the two glue traps
To expose its small, grey head.
Looking to my right to avoid its stare,
I realize what must be done as I reach
Over to grab the large, siltstone rock
Lying carelessly alongside the building.
I look back into the mouse’s eyes
As we share one final look at one other.
The mouse begins to squeal in panic.
My heart fills with dread as I raise
The large rock in my hands and say
That I am sorry my brother, so sorry.
I swing the rock down towards the neck
As hard as I think it will vitally need.
But the mouse remains still, barely alive
As it scurries in place in fear.
The siltstone’s orange tip now covered
In bits of the mouse’s fur and blood.
Reluctantly, I am forced to finish.
Thus, I swing the rock again and again
Until the mouse squeaks no more
And its little legs lie still upon the traps.
Helpless and dead.
The mouse lies still in the plastic bag
As I tie it up and walk slowly
To the nearby trashcan upon the street.
Holding out my hand, I drop it inside.
My heart is filled with sorrow and guilt
For this is the first animal whose life
Has ended by my conscious hands.
Helpless and troubled.
With the mouse’s final squeak
Resonating inside my head,
The horrified feeling that rests inside me
Simply, just does not feel right.
A. B. Harrison
Helpless and small.
Under the sink and in the open cabinet
Stuck between two black glue traps
It lingers captive waiting for us.
Its little white legs scurry in place.
Its haunting squeaks echo in the room,
A painful nightmare for listeners to bear.
Helpless and defeated.
The mouse calls out in its shrill voice
As if to beg for mercy to those who
Linger about and watch in horror
Or to bid farewell to those he loves
Who wait horrified behind the wall.
I get onto one knee to assess the damage.
The mouse’s body frantically squirms
With its mangled and torn abdomen
Cemented in gluey strands to each
Foul and cruel death-dealing board.
Its mutilated grey fur torn from its flesh.
Blood trickling from its mouth.
Helpless and scared.
It looks up at me like a caught prey
With black beady eyes radiating sorrow
Waiting for the sticky pain to stop.
Folks start growing tired of seeing
The mouse they had caught in pain and
Beg for me to put it out of its misery.
I do not want to kill the mouse, but
Neither do I want it to suffer any longer.
Gently, I pick up the traps and the mouse
With my hands and slowly place them
Inside the white plastic bag that waits.
I pick up the bag as the mouse squeals.
I walk outside to the back of the building
And gently place the bag upon the street.
Opening up the bag, the mouse stares
As our eyes meet in joint horror.
Tenderly, I open the two glue traps
To expose its small, grey head.
Looking to my right to avoid its stare,
I realize what must be done as I reach
Over to grab the large, siltstone rock
Lying carelessly alongside the building.
I look back into the mouse’s eyes
As we share one final look at one other.
The mouse begins to squeal in panic.
My heart fills with dread as I raise
The large rock in my hands and say
That I am sorry my brother, so sorry.
I swing the rock down towards the neck
As hard as I think it will vitally need.
But the mouse remains still, barely alive
As it scurries in place in fear.
The siltstone’s orange tip now covered
In bits of the mouse’s fur and blood.
Reluctantly, I am forced to finish.
Thus, I swing the rock again and again
Until the mouse squeaks no more
And its little legs lie still upon the traps.
Helpless and dead.
The mouse lies still in the plastic bag
As I tie it up and walk slowly
To the nearby trashcan upon the street.
Holding out my hand, I drop it inside.
My heart is filled with sorrow and guilt
For this is the first animal whose life
Has ended by my conscious hands.
Helpless and troubled.
With the mouse’s final squeak
Resonating inside my head,
The horrified feeling that rests inside me
Simply, just does not feel right.
The Name
Lacey Hanemann
There are ways to make the body numb
Simply by a thought
To sit, perched and paralyzed
Staring at a tear in the carpet
To wonder if your hair’s messed up
To forget you have hair at all
Say a name, the name that’s your own “the name”
Say it,
I dare you
Teeth are clenched,
Legs are loose
This is real life, this feeling
Feeling’s not the right word
That suggests that the body
Believes what it thinks
To be true
No not feeling
An energy
That breaks knee caps
And makes the preacher curse
The whole congregation laughing
Red faced and overfed
It’s an energy that’s been
Waiting
And now it’s found
So what
Nothing is different
It’s been there
Always
We haven’t found the energy
This nonsense spark
We’ve simply taught
The other
To see it without knowing
Grabbed the other's face and shouted
“Look at me!
Look at me!”
There’s a spark
Blue and green
With a little bit of
Yellow red.
Yeah, there’s a fire
Lacey Hanemann
There are ways to make the body numb
Simply by a thought
To sit, perched and paralyzed
Staring at a tear in the carpet
To wonder if your hair’s messed up
To forget you have hair at all
Say a name, the name that’s your own “the name”
Say it,
I dare you
Teeth are clenched,
Legs are loose
This is real life, this feeling
Feeling’s not the right word
That suggests that the body
Believes what it thinks
To be true
No not feeling
An energy
That breaks knee caps
And makes the preacher curse
The whole congregation laughing
Red faced and overfed
It’s an energy that’s been
Waiting
And now it’s found
So what
Nothing is different
It’s been there
Always
We haven’t found the energy
This nonsense spark
We’ve simply taught
The other
To see it without knowing
Grabbed the other's face and shouted
“Look at me!
Look at me!”
There’s a spark
Blue and green
With a little bit of
Yellow red.
Yeah, there’s a fire
Night Cession
Dillon Nelson
Wouldn’t you do whatever possible to avoid nodding,
When night comes ‘round a-poking and a-prodding?
Slinging steaming sand in your eyes,
Leaving you keenly considering pointed lies,
You might have told others, yourself,
To prolong a fancy dream of health,
With a penetrating gale ripping through covers
Its baleful wail the din of former, future lovers
With a familiar haze, invariable, with its inward gaze
Twisting id until face to face with ideals base
And immaterial pits of sickly, sordid, crippling Shame
Crying and moaning, begging to know its name,
Leaving you dumbly posing on spotted podium,
Causing unknown audience raging odium
With scoffs and boos and other sound seldom heard,
You bowing into a pitfall, the stage having stirred
Casting you out into the depths of the starlit sea
Watery eyes scanning inner darkest for infinity.
Obscene, dead masses hurry in your direction
Carrying back degrees of introspection
On forgotten convictions trodden, bereft
Shocking you to the brink of death,
Remembering what someone once said,
“Unconscious swimming could leave you dead.”
In waking to life, shouting as if this were true,
To your uncanny father tying his shoe.
Wouldn’t you give any amount of wealth,
Rather than nodding when your father tells you he’s been there himself?
Dillon Nelson
Wouldn’t you do whatever possible to avoid nodding,
When night comes ‘round a-poking and a-prodding?
Slinging steaming sand in your eyes,
Leaving you keenly considering pointed lies,
You might have told others, yourself,
To prolong a fancy dream of health,
With a penetrating gale ripping through covers
Its baleful wail the din of former, future lovers
With a familiar haze, invariable, with its inward gaze
Twisting id until face to face with ideals base
And immaterial pits of sickly, sordid, crippling Shame
Crying and moaning, begging to know its name,
Leaving you dumbly posing on spotted podium,
Causing unknown audience raging odium
With scoffs and boos and other sound seldom heard,
You bowing into a pitfall, the stage having stirred
Casting you out into the depths of the starlit sea
Watery eyes scanning inner darkest for infinity.
Obscene, dead masses hurry in your direction
Carrying back degrees of introspection
On forgotten convictions trodden, bereft
Shocking you to the brink of death,
Remembering what someone once said,
“Unconscious swimming could leave you dead.”
In waking to life, shouting as if this were true,
To your uncanny father tying his shoe.
Wouldn’t you give any amount of wealth,
Rather than nodding when your father tells you he’s been there himself?
The Once Green Past
Megan Jones
Fall blew a breeze near my knees,
Whisking away all that was green.
A golden grace and a hint of cold,
Darker lace and thick coats to hold.
But Fall fades away, for it cannot stay,
So Winter may come the very next day.
Winter brought ice, wind, frost, and snow.
Spring can fight that when the flowers grow.
Those coats peel off when they see the sun rise,
And none of them button back until it starts to die.
That’s not till Fall blows yet another chilly breeze,
Closing in, wrapping around my covered knees.
The reds and oranges litter all the grass,
Leaving behind the once green past.
Megan Jones
Fall blew a breeze near my knees,
Whisking away all that was green.
A golden grace and a hint of cold,
Darker lace and thick coats to hold.
But Fall fades away, for it cannot stay,
So Winter may come the very next day.
Winter brought ice, wind, frost, and snow.
Spring can fight that when the flowers grow.
Those coats peel off when they see the sun rise,
And none of them button back until it starts to die.
That’s not till Fall blows yet another chilly breeze,
Closing in, wrapping around my covered knees.
The reds and oranges litter all the grass,
Leaving behind the once green past.
Our Epic Hero
Parker Carwile
Steadfast and strong, our stoic hero stands;
He is all brawn with a hollowed-out head.
He blunders about, a sword in his hands;
Swinging it senselessly, slashing foes dead.
Bragging about his vast might does this fool;
He is clueless of the monster within.
A cunning creature that is vile and cruel;
Known as pride that supplants comprehension.
With each triumph, his demon takes control;
He proclaims to all “I cannot be slain!”
Until a night challenger takes his soul
And rips him apart, scattering his brain.
And so our epic hero is revealed:
One who is smart enough to wield a shield.
Parker Carwile
Steadfast and strong, our stoic hero stands;
He is all brawn with a hollowed-out head.
He blunders about, a sword in his hands;
Swinging it senselessly, slashing foes dead.
Bragging about his vast might does this fool;
He is clueless of the monster within.
A cunning creature that is vile and cruel;
Known as pride that supplants comprehension.
With each triumph, his demon takes control;
He proclaims to all “I cannot be slain!”
Until a night challenger takes his soul
And rips him apart, scattering his brain.
And so our epic hero is revealed:
One who is smart enough to wield a shield.
Perdition’s Inferno
ReAnna Rowden
Perdition’s inferno
can very well be the modest tangent of God,
the desperate fervor,
in worship where apology absently
saturates
every other verse of discord,
every other aid trailing
figment.
ReAnna Rowden
Perdition’s inferno
can very well be the modest tangent of God,
the desperate fervor,
in worship where apology absently
saturates
every other verse of discord,
every other aid trailing
figment.
A Poem for Skye
(Dedicated to Skye McFarland)
Savannah Woods
Colors swirl around your abandoned body like a shroud.
Your 12”x11” room is a sepulcher.
Abandoned mugs, half-filled with now cold liquid
Are positioned like altar candles.
Your memory haunts this building.
The phantom sound of your laughter walks the corridors.
Illusions of you turning corners.
The loss is palpable; thick as viscera.
(Dedicated to Skye McFarland)
Savannah Woods
Colors swirl around your abandoned body like a shroud.
Your 12”x11” room is a sepulcher.
Abandoned mugs, half-filled with now cold liquid
Are positioned like altar candles.
Your memory haunts this building.
The phantom sound of your laughter walks the corridors.
Illusions of you turning corners.
The loss is palpable; thick as viscera.
Prayer
Kelli Miley
Broken words
Scatter
into
empty
space
Tempered silence
Bated Breath
I wait
And hope.
For an answer
Or a whisper
The Quiet Suffocates.
Kelli Miley
Broken words
Scatter
into
empty
space
Tempered silence
Bated Breath
I wait
And hope.
For an answer
Or a whisper
The Quiet Suffocates.
Prescriptions
Devin Tant
It's nights like this that I start to think
there's nothing I could do, here on the brink.
I remember that the cause was lost before I started.
Everything that gathers is destined to be parted.
So why am I here, so deep in the pursuit,
Of a life that's yet to even bear fruit?
Oh that's right, the image remains.
"Heads up, chest out, put back on your chains.
Here's the medicine, be sure you're complying.
And forget about her." (God help me I'm trying)
The smile hides the question "Is this the new me?"
I take another pill with "Who am I meant to be?"
Maybe this is simply where the problem begins-
pills can't absolve me of all my sins
No better than white paint poured from gasoline tanks
Given to the oppressed as an offer of thanks.
No, I'm the one at fault, the cause of this grief
So chant with me, children; "Hell to the Chief."
I come back to myself, in small bursts of creativity.
Are these pills what's natural, or is this proclivity?
What's the difference between depression and disgrace
To one who feels they're just taking up space?
To people who can't look up from shuffling their feet,
For whom life's looking both ways to cross a one-way street;
Pointless. Useless. This is the fifth time for this scolding.
Once for each finger on the hand she's not holding.
It's no coincidence that these cries of the forlorn
repeat "You must die to be reborn."
You can't tell me anything that I haven't told myself.
I'll take your damn pill, return my soul to the shelf,
Becoming, once again, this creature so hollow,
That's learned Life's always been the hardest pill to swallow.
Devin Tant
It's nights like this that I start to think
there's nothing I could do, here on the brink.
I remember that the cause was lost before I started.
Everything that gathers is destined to be parted.
So why am I here, so deep in the pursuit,
Of a life that's yet to even bear fruit?
Oh that's right, the image remains.
"Heads up, chest out, put back on your chains.
Here's the medicine, be sure you're complying.
And forget about her." (God help me I'm trying)
The smile hides the question "Is this the new me?"
I take another pill with "Who am I meant to be?"
Maybe this is simply where the problem begins-
pills can't absolve me of all my sins
No better than white paint poured from gasoline tanks
Given to the oppressed as an offer of thanks.
No, I'm the one at fault, the cause of this grief
So chant with me, children; "Hell to the Chief."
I come back to myself, in small bursts of creativity.
Are these pills what's natural, or is this proclivity?
What's the difference between depression and disgrace
To one who feels they're just taking up space?
To people who can't look up from shuffling their feet,
For whom life's looking both ways to cross a one-way street;
Pointless. Useless. This is the fifth time for this scolding.
Once for each finger on the hand she's not holding.
It's no coincidence that these cries of the forlorn
repeat "You must die to be reborn."
You can't tell me anything that I haven't told myself.
I'll take your damn pill, return my soul to the shelf,
Becoming, once again, this creature so hollow,
That's learned Life's always been the hardest pill to swallow.
Promises Not Vain
Kathryn McCrary
Rising early, it is a dreary morning
News of another’s loss, it is a darker day
Tears and heartbreak, it is all our loss
Fathers cry, hopes are dashed
Then, thoughts fly Heavenward
There, little ones are safe in love
His promises, called to mind
They will sustain
Kathryn McCrary
Rising early, it is a dreary morning
News of another’s loss, it is a darker day
Tears and heartbreak, it is all our loss
Fathers cry, hopes are dashed
Then, thoughts fly Heavenward
There, little ones are safe in love
His promises, called to mind
They will sustain
She drank me
Dalton Russell
She drank me
Without hesitation.
Like a shot she took me quickly
Not to the head but the heart.
Intoxicated, she danced as pure desire dripped form her pores
Covering me completely
Reigning over me.
She was given two choices,
Stand on the cliff
And enjoy the view,
Or jump
And enjoy the fall.
Dalton Russell
She drank me
Without hesitation.
Like a shot she took me quickly
Not to the head but the heart.
Intoxicated, she danced as pure desire dripped form her pores
Covering me completely
Reigning over me.
She was given two choices,
Stand on the cliff
And enjoy the view,
Or jump
And enjoy the fall.
shell shock
Kenneth West
i am a soldier
shackled not by
foreign mercenaries
but by my own self hate
a fungus
festering and feeding
on my joy until
i am nothing
but a skeleton
a wingless eagle
who each morning
launches out of bed
screaming
at the invisible gun
held to my head
Kenneth West
i am a soldier
shackled not by
foreign mercenaries
but by my own self hate
a fungus
festering and feeding
on my joy until
i am nothing
but a skeleton
a wingless eagle
who each morning
launches out of bed
screaming
at the invisible gun
held to my head
The Shortcut
Matt Parrish
The brown crackling gate whines.
I saunter down the meandering pathway
surrounded by desolate faces, long forgotten.
The mossy stones whisper as I tread passed;
Remember me…
The grey chill slowly crawls up my neck;
lacy fingers tickling, scratching at my skin.
The whispers, earnestly raising in pitch
Beckoning, pleading;
Remember me…
The gnarled leggy branches outstretched
obliging them to rise from their eternal slumber.
Struggling to escape the squelching stink
Stony eyes staring, imploring
Remember me…
They grasp at me with earnest
Imposing dread settles around my shoulders
My pace quickens as I retreat;
icy breath trailing behind me.
Bellowing louder as the rusted metal slams;
Remember me….
Matt Parrish
The brown crackling gate whines.
I saunter down the meandering pathway
surrounded by desolate faces, long forgotten.
The mossy stones whisper as I tread passed;
Remember me…
The grey chill slowly crawls up my neck;
lacy fingers tickling, scratching at my skin.
The whispers, earnestly raising in pitch
Beckoning, pleading;
Remember me…
The gnarled leggy branches outstretched
obliging them to rise from their eternal slumber.
Struggling to escape the squelching stink
Stony eyes staring, imploring
Remember me…
They grasp at me with earnest
Imposing dread settles around my shoulders
My pace quickens as I retreat;
icy breath trailing behind me.
Bellowing louder as the rusted metal slams;
Remember me….
Son of the Sabi Sands
Olivia Thomas
A crack in the air, the crack of a skull,
Another head down in the cull of innocents.
A newborn orphan’s scream goes unheard by the world,
For a sporty genocide that has been happening for hundreds of years.
The black market’s lottery outweighs the gods they worship.
Gravestones on a hearth, positioned ever so slightly,
Under an oil-colored canvas of a self-imposed king.
For the rumored cancer myths and self-esteem of lovers who know no better.
The witchcraft of keratin holds no gold
……so the foreigners say.
Now the babe, lone son of the Sabi Sands,
The silver shelling of his mother’s reaper now lodged under iron skin.
It burns in tune with his pulse.
Her life lost for a lock of hair or the clip of a nail.
Only half the world sees it as a waste.
The killer’s kin is the son’s salvation.
They blindfold him to save his sight.
They cage him to save his life, to survive these harsh lands.
Only in green windows they stand,
Baring crisp salads and creamy sweets.
The son’s guardians constantly change, rarely is there a familiar face.
They all come cloaked in kakis and boots,
Their gilded skin splotched with rivers of mud and sweat.
They all find love in his eyes
And he fits himself into a corner of their hearts.
His night terrors are soothed by rifle wielding shepherds that guard him at night.
Soon, a sister is gained by his side, her story the same as his.
They live together, growing up with their ever changing caretakers.
And the son lengthens, strengthens, and holds his head high.
The lone son is happy, for he does not know any better.
But he is kind and he is gentle.
He knows they saved his life, and he is forever grateful.
He smiles, though they are blind, and thanks them, though they are deaf.
They take care of him.
Their lives and time in exchange for his.
But one night, as he sleeps, he is struck by thunder.
He sinks to his knees in an all too familiar burn.
It is spreading far, he feels his traitorous pulse pull the poison deeper.
The pain flares out, like the hood around a bitter cobra.
No. No. No.
Then they are on him, lapping up their undeserved fortunes
Like feral dogs quenching their thirst at sewer water.
They scalp him, despite his still beating heart.
His sister watches from a distance,
Horrified as his screams tear apart the night,
Witnessing the same horror for a second time.
A safe haven now red, turned a scene of crime.
And, just like that, the son follows his mother’s fate.
Worlds away, his previous guardians flinch violently.
They feel the fatal bullet, it resonates against their bones.
They are helpless as his life is torn away from them.
Their eyes burn, their hearts bleed.
The handful of souls fall to their knees, and let out a broken wail.
For one thought will forever torture them.
We failed.
Olivia Thomas
A crack in the air, the crack of a skull,
Another head down in the cull of innocents.
A newborn orphan’s scream goes unheard by the world,
For a sporty genocide that has been happening for hundreds of years.
The black market’s lottery outweighs the gods they worship.
Gravestones on a hearth, positioned ever so slightly,
Under an oil-colored canvas of a self-imposed king.
For the rumored cancer myths and self-esteem of lovers who know no better.
The witchcraft of keratin holds no gold
……so the foreigners say.
Now the babe, lone son of the Sabi Sands,
The silver shelling of his mother’s reaper now lodged under iron skin.
It burns in tune with his pulse.
Her life lost for a lock of hair or the clip of a nail.
Only half the world sees it as a waste.
The killer’s kin is the son’s salvation.
They blindfold him to save his sight.
They cage him to save his life, to survive these harsh lands.
Only in green windows they stand,
Baring crisp salads and creamy sweets.
The son’s guardians constantly change, rarely is there a familiar face.
They all come cloaked in kakis and boots,
Their gilded skin splotched with rivers of mud and sweat.
They all find love in his eyes
And he fits himself into a corner of their hearts.
His night terrors are soothed by rifle wielding shepherds that guard him at night.
Soon, a sister is gained by his side, her story the same as his.
They live together, growing up with their ever changing caretakers.
And the son lengthens, strengthens, and holds his head high.
The lone son is happy, for he does not know any better.
But he is kind and he is gentle.
He knows they saved his life, and he is forever grateful.
He smiles, though they are blind, and thanks them, though they are deaf.
They take care of him.
Their lives and time in exchange for his.
But one night, as he sleeps, he is struck by thunder.
He sinks to his knees in an all too familiar burn.
It is spreading far, he feels his traitorous pulse pull the poison deeper.
The pain flares out, like the hood around a bitter cobra.
No. No. No.
Then they are on him, lapping up their undeserved fortunes
Like feral dogs quenching their thirst at sewer water.
They scalp him, despite his still beating heart.
His sister watches from a distance,
Horrified as his screams tear apart the night,
Witnessing the same horror for a second time.
A safe haven now red, turned a scene of crime.
And, just like that, the son follows his mother’s fate.
Worlds away, his previous guardians flinch violently.
They feel the fatal bullet, it resonates against their bones.
They are helpless as his life is torn away from them.
Their eyes burn, their hearts bleed.
The handful of souls fall to their knees, and let out a broken wail.
For one thought will forever torture them.
We failed.
Stains
Savannah Woods
She smokes to take the pain away,
Because the world she sees today
Is not the world inside her mind,
So she pretends that she is blind.
Losing sight and losing seeing
Lets the girl remember being
The girl that once was innocent,
Before the night that she spent
On his bed with gritted teeth,
Thought love was being underneath.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Now she sleeps in bed alone,
An empty room is not a home.
Pillows soaked with her tears
She's trapped inside with her fears.
She cries for the girl she once was
Who's gone from the world because
She loved the boy who could not love;
Her body was to push and shove.
He did not love her as a wife;
Her only lover is her knife.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Savannah Woods
She smokes to take the pain away,
Because the world she sees today
Is not the world inside her mind,
So she pretends that she is blind.
Losing sight and losing seeing
Lets the girl remember being
The girl that once was innocent,
Before the night that she spent
On his bed with gritted teeth,
Thought love was being underneath.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Now she sleeps in bed alone,
An empty room is not a home.
Pillows soaked with her tears
She's trapped inside with her fears.
She cries for the girl she once was
Who's gone from the world because
She loved the boy who could not love;
Her body was to push and shove.
He did not love her as a wife;
Her only lover is her knife.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Red stained more than the sheets.
Stitched Lips
Parker Carwile
I have a pair of stitched lips,
Never to part
For fear they’ll rip.
So no one will know how much I
think and
feel;
Nods
“Yes” and “No”
can be my only
spiel.
I sewed them shut long ago.
I sewed them shut.
I sewed them.
I sewed.
Thread
upon thread,
Fear
upon fear.
Needle
in and
out,
Tear
upon
Tear.
The threads are weak
But they seem so strong;
It seems like they’ve been with me all
along.
But I can’t pull; it will hurt me so.
I just know it will hurt.
I just know it.
I know!
So that decides it, just not today.
It’s not like I had something
to say,
Anyway.
Parker Carwile
I have a pair of stitched lips,
Never to part
For fear they’ll rip.
So no one will know how much I
think and
feel;
Nods
“Yes” and “No”
can be my only
spiel.
I sewed them shut long ago.
I sewed them shut.
I sewed them.
I sewed.
Thread
upon thread,
Fear
upon fear.
Needle
in and
out,
Tear
upon
Tear.
The threads are weak
But they seem so strong;
It seems like they’ve been with me all
along.
But I can’t pull; it will hurt me so.
I just know it will hurt.
I just know it.
I know!
So that decides it, just not today.
It’s not like I had something
to say,
Anyway.
the stonethrowers
Kenneth West
there he goes again
bernardo, basket-thief
being flogged for the
fourth time this fortnight
but is it truly a sin
when your loved ones holler
in hunger because magicians
are no longer needed and no
one wants to see an
old man pull a speckled
rabbit from a torn
sombrero seven-hundred times
and even the proud beak-nosed
patricians stop
tossing their corroded
sticky, gum-growing pennies
at you and your songs
twisted by the anguish
of existence surrender their
sweet sound and the only
tunes that throttle from
your throat are sustained
strained symphonies of
sorrow that in more eloquent
terms than i can here
express attest to the
sanctity you possess
and the purity of the
heart in your breast
(but i digress)
and all of the injustices
are reinforced with the
whip’s thwack and crack
as bernardo, basket-thief,
short and skinny but
beautiful-souled stands
stiff and silent unaghast
compliant accepting our
acrimonious penalty
resolutely at ease under
the sting of our scorn
unbudging beneath the weight
of our hypocrisy
unphased by our laughter
our unnatural laughter
our inharmonious laughter
our secretly self-loathing laughter
Kenneth West
there he goes again
bernardo, basket-thief
being flogged for the
fourth time this fortnight
but is it truly a sin
when your loved ones holler
in hunger because magicians
are no longer needed and no
one wants to see an
old man pull a speckled
rabbit from a torn
sombrero seven-hundred times
and even the proud beak-nosed
patricians stop
tossing their corroded
sticky, gum-growing pennies
at you and your songs
twisted by the anguish
of existence surrender their
sweet sound and the only
tunes that throttle from
your throat are sustained
strained symphonies of
sorrow that in more eloquent
terms than i can here
express attest to the
sanctity you possess
and the purity of the
heart in your breast
(but i digress)
and all of the injustices
are reinforced with the
whip’s thwack and crack
as bernardo, basket-thief,
short and skinny but
beautiful-souled stands
stiff and silent unaghast
compliant accepting our
acrimonious penalty
resolutely at ease under
the sting of our scorn
unbudging beneath the weight
of our hypocrisy
unphased by our laughter
our unnatural laughter
our inharmonious laughter
our secretly self-loathing laughter
TG
Hunter Pittman
I’m tired of being beaten.
I’m tired of being hit.
I’m tired of being told that I am an abomination.
Its not like I chose this life.
I am this was way for a reason.
But they say that is not a reason.
They don’t know me.
They send me to therapist after therapist
Thinking that I have a mental disease.
I am not mentally sick.
I was made this way.
But still they don’t believe.
Let me be the person I want to be.
Stop forcing me to be how I was created.
The church says this, the church says that, but the church is wrong.
I just want to leave, to just go away, and to just die.
I want to be a girl not a boy.
I want to have all the things a girl would have, everything.
But they won’t allow it.
They think that God and the church can change me.
But God made me this way and I know it.
And if they refuse to accept then I might as well die.
I get my secret stash of clothing out and get dressed,
Put my makeup on and do my hair.
As I get the knife out and start to slit my wrists, I say,
"If they don’t want a transgender kid then they will have a dead one."
Hunter Pittman
I’m tired of being beaten.
I’m tired of being hit.
I’m tired of being told that I am an abomination.
Its not like I chose this life.
I am this was way for a reason.
But they say that is not a reason.
They don’t know me.
They send me to therapist after therapist
Thinking that I have a mental disease.
I am not mentally sick.
I was made this way.
But still they don’t believe.
Let me be the person I want to be.
Stop forcing me to be how I was created.
The church says this, the church says that, but the church is wrong.
I just want to leave, to just go away, and to just die.
I want to be a girl not a boy.
I want to have all the things a girl would have, everything.
But they won’t allow it.
They think that God and the church can change me.
But God made me this way and I know it.
And if they refuse to accept then I might as well die.
I get my secret stash of clothing out and get dressed,
Put my makeup on and do my hair.
As I get the knife out and start to slit my wrists, I say,
"If they don’t want a transgender kid then they will have a dead one."
Thoughts
Simanta Lamichhane
I don’t know
From where do these thoughts comes from
However, I am standing here like a flag in a maize field
blowing to the right
blowing to the left
as dictated by a gust of wind
It’s not me who decides which way to blow
It’s the wind of thoughts
Sometimes they make me feel happy
As does cool breeze in spring
Sometimes they make me feel terrified
As does a storm in summer
This forces me to believe
my body, my behaviors
They are not my identity
Nor is my life and its events
It’s that thought aroused in fraction of a second
That holds my true identity
So my friends
I am just a thought
Aroused in fraction of a second
Simanta Lamichhane
I don’t know
From where do these thoughts comes from
However, I am standing here like a flag in a maize field
blowing to the right
blowing to the left
as dictated by a gust of wind
It’s not me who decides which way to blow
It’s the wind of thoughts
Sometimes they make me feel happy
As does cool breeze in spring
Sometimes they make me feel terrified
As does a storm in summer
This forces me to believe
my body, my behaviors
They are not my identity
Nor is my life and its events
It’s that thought aroused in fraction of a second
That holds my true identity
So my friends
I am just a thought
Aroused in fraction of a second
Timeless Tales in Chapel Chambers
John Wagner
Timeless tales were trapped in chapel chambers
As history was decoded through Renaissance painters.
Tapestries were woven with wool from the Lamb
The artist held the brush, but who was in command?
Candles were lit as maps were restructured,
Retracing paths that were previously uncovered.
The equator realigned all of those in search,
Which held greater power, Royalty or the Church?
In Sacred Sanctuaries where Saints now worship,
Are where unbound books are written in cursive.
Fire arose where manna fell from the sky,
As flames were dispersed in symmetrics of pi.
Sand buried the secrets then they resurfaced in pyramids,
Where pharaoh solely permitted those that were spirited.
Burial grounds where we now gather for wisdom,
Were the birthing place of fate's next victim.
Ancient artifacts valued with eternal treasure-
With wisdom or gold will you choose to be measured?...
John Wagner
Timeless tales were trapped in chapel chambers
As history was decoded through Renaissance painters.
Tapestries were woven with wool from the Lamb
The artist held the brush, but who was in command?
Candles were lit as maps were restructured,
Retracing paths that were previously uncovered.
The equator realigned all of those in search,
Which held greater power, Royalty or the Church?
In Sacred Sanctuaries where Saints now worship,
Are where unbound books are written in cursive.
Fire arose where manna fell from the sky,
As flames were dispersed in symmetrics of pi.
Sand buried the secrets then they resurfaced in pyramids,
Where pharaoh solely permitted those that were spirited.
Burial grounds where we now gather for wisdom,
Were the birthing place of fate's next victim.
Ancient artifacts valued with eternal treasure-
With wisdom or gold will you choose to be measured?...
A Toast! (A Curtal Sonnet)
Devin Tant
Here's to stars in blackened skies,
always watching from above.
Here's to flowers' failing beauty,
teaching us to never love.
Here's to accusations flying,
each that fit us like a glove.
To chances lost to negligence,
far past the hope of recompense.
To pledges, faith, and dedication.
To lives we gave in immolation.
To us.
Devin Tant
Here's to stars in blackened skies,
always watching from above.
Here's to flowers' failing beauty,
teaching us to never love.
Here's to accusations flying,
each that fit us like a glove.
To chances lost to negligence,
far past the hope of recompense.
To pledges, faith, and dedication.
To lives we gave in immolation.
To us.
the tree chant
Kenneth West
the tree’s trunk is sawed
there is no more dancing
in her sacred shadow
no longer
will she shed her leaves
in autumn
no longer
will children climb
her craggy girth
trying to touch the
toes of god
no longer
will the birds soar
through her hair scouting
for a branch
in which to nest
no longer
will beaver admire
the expansiveness of her
trunk never daring to
gnaw her gargantuan body
no longer
will cat consider climbing
her heartbreaking heights
hoping to escape dog’s wrath
while he hashes out his anger
on something else
the earth is emptier now
the tree’s trunk is sawed
there is no more dancing
in her sacred shadow
Kenneth West
the tree’s trunk is sawed
there is no more dancing
in her sacred shadow
no longer
will she shed her leaves
in autumn
no longer
will children climb
her craggy girth
trying to touch the
toes of god
no longer
will the birds soar
through her hair scouting
for a branch
in which to nest
no longer
will beaver admire
the expansiveness of her
trunk never daring to
gnaw her gargantuan body
no longer
will cat consider climbing
her heartbreaking heights
hoping to escape dog’s wrath
while he hashes out his anger
on something else
the earth is emptier now
the tree’s trunk is sawed
there is no more dancing
in her sacred shadow
Two Doves
Parker Carwile
We would sit--
Like two doves on a wire--
Waiting for morning--
For mourning--
We knew would come.
At dawn’s break--
I would break--
Down, and you would--
Cope--
Somehow.
I would fly south--
And far away--
From the wire--
My mourning--
And you.
But you would stay put--
In the shallow grave--
Of my greeting--
And leaving--
So soon.
The wire grew cold--
For it takes two--
Two doves--
For the wire--
To warm.
You chose fight--
And I chose flight--
But still--
You would sit--
Alone.
A morning dove--
A mourning dove--
There--
You would sit--
And wait.
Why did you, no--
How did you know--
That I would--
Be arriving--
Late?
So we would sit--
Two doves on a wire--
Waiting for mourning--
We knew--
Would come.
Though in our name--
Though in our nature--
Mourning broke--
And the wire--
Warmed.
Parker Carwile
We would sit--
Like two doves on a wire--
Waiting for morning--
For mourning--
We knew would come.
At dawn’s break--
I would break--
Down, and you would--
Cope--
Somehow.
I would fly south--
And far away--
From the wire--
My mourning--
And you.
But you would stay put--
In the shallow grave--
Of my greeting--
And leaving--
So soon.
The wire grew cold--
For it takes two--
Two doves--
For the wire--
To warm.
You chose fight--
And I chose flight--
But still--
You would sit--
Alone.
A morning dove--
A mourning dove--
There--
You would sit--
And wait.
Why did you, no--
How did you know--
That I would--
Be arriving--
Late?
So we would sit--
Two doves on a wire--
Waiting for mourning--
We knew--
Would come.
Though in our name--
Though in our nature--
Mourning broke--
And the wire--
Warmed.
The Vultures
R.E.M.
Pour me another glass,
Something sweeter now,
And feed me, too;
The vultures here are foul.
Send me far from here,
To your snows and your sands,
Where feet may tell a tale
To fall between your hands.
Whisk me away now,
To your fields and trees.
Plow the grain behind me;
Let there be nothing left to please.
Pay my fare;
Your forests reek of rot.
The treetops rustle rabid,
I’ll lend the sea my thoughts!
Throw me overboard,
The skies are becoming dark.
What ghost anchors our ship?
I must hasten this little lark!
Find me your foreign horse,
May she carry me farther still?
I seek that house of drink
With my compass on the sill.
The compass tells me now
No direction to desire.
You promised the sound would cease
Back at that bloodied briar!
The noise – it deafens me now,
That wretched, damned beating.
There’s no more bread and no more wine…
On what could you be feasting?
R.E.M.
Pour me another glass,
Something sweeter now,
And feed me, too;
The vultures here are foul.
Send me far from here,
To your snows and your sands,
Where feet may tell a tale
To fall between your hands.
Whisk me away now,
To your fields and trees.
Plow the grain behind me;
Let there be nothing left to please.
Pay my fare;
Your forests reek of rot.
The treetops rustle rabid,
I’ll lend the sea my thoughts!
Throw me overboard,
The skies are becoming dark.
What ghost anchors our ship?
I must hasten this little lark!
Find me your foreign horse,
May she carry me farther still?
I seek that house of drink
With my compass on the sill.
The compass tells me now
No direction to desire.
You promised the sound would cease
Back at that bloodied briar!
The noise – it deafens me now,
That wretched, damned beating.
There’s no more bread and no more wine…
On what could you be feasting?
We donned the faces of ghosts
Nicholas Todd
We heard the cracking thunder,
The banshee’s call.
We donned the faces of ghosts,
Each one of us the same.
Our cadaverous skin sagging,
Putrid and void of life.
Our sub-terrestrial eyes stare blankly,
Windows into oblivion.
Protruding from the front
Was no mouth but a tentacle,
The snout of some carrion drone
Feeding off of death and decay.
No longer are we
The brothers, the fathers, the sons
Of those we left behind.
We are the harbingers of Pestilence.
Never to return
No more fates
To try and discern.
Nicholas Todd
We heard the cracking thunder,
The banshee’s call.
We donned the faces of ghosts,
Each one of us the same.
Our cadaverous skin sagging,
Putrid and void of life.
Our sub-terrestrial eyes stare blankly,
Windows into oblivion.
Protruding from the front
Was no mouth but a tentacle,
The snout of some carrion drone
Feeding off of death and decay.
No longer are we
The brothers, the fathers, the sons
Of those we left behind.
We are the harbingers of Pestilence.
Never to return
No more fates
To try and discern.
We Take the Blow
Megan Jones
Inconspicuous as it seems,
Monday was the day.
The night before was spent in merriment;
The joy was not to stay.
A call dispatched,
That’s when we got word,
For voices that are not spoken,
Will often go unheard.
There had to be something,
Something to keep you here.
A song, a voice, a small person
Who wanted to keep you near.
Candles were raised,
And a sad date was set
To honor the man
We once thought of with respect.
Why was today different?
How did the world shift?
I’d ask you to explain,
But today you cease to exist.
There had to be something,
Something of worth.
A song, a voice, the laughter of a child.
All these memories now under the earth.
There had to be something.
Anything at all.
When the shadows surrounded you,
You didn’t have to fall.
There had to be something,
But we will never know.
A song, a voice, it wasn’t enough
And now we take the blow.
Megan Jones
Inconspicuous as it seems,
Monday was the day.
The night before was spent in merriment;
The joy was not to stay.
A call dispatched,
That’s when we got word,
For voices that are not spoken,
Will often go unheard.
There had to be something,
Something to keep you here.
A song, a voice, a small person
Who wanted to keep you near.
Candles were raised,
And a sad date was set
To honor the man
We once thought of with respect.
Why was today different?
How did the world shift?
I’d ask you to explain,
But today you cease to exist.
There had to be something,
Something of worth.
A song, a voice, the laughter of a child.
All these memories now under the earth.
There had to be something.
Anything at all.
When the shadows surrounded you,
You didn’t have to fall.
There had to be something,
But we will never know.
A song, a voice, it wasn’t enough
And now we take the blow.
What Comes Into View
Parker Carwile
The Sun: gone,
Withdrawn, our eyes see
Old vibrant blood, smeared and dry,
Left low and vast in drained sky.
All is Same,
Whose purpose was ease.
Their sleek, superb silhouettes
Tower all in lifeless sets.
Such backdrop does make them stand--
Out from shadows of deceit.
Edges are abrupt;
Columns: cut.
Their smoke and flame of our kind
Fudges the blood orange shine
And so it swallows
Us in night.
Deep blue is the Dark.
Overtaken are we
By the Dream.
Mystery surrounds.
We frantically search
For our sight.
Many choose to follow
The bright of ours that blinds
The Abyssal Wonder
We are leaving behind.
But steady Oh silver handle
Above hangs waiting, waiting.
Dare to grab hold It speaks
Seek true sight in me.
Come off the curb.
Further in
Unknown
Come…
Desolate is the Dark.
I stand lost.
I regret my stillness.
I fear now.
Rusted Herald handle
Hangs too low.
My sight: blocked, blocked by black:
Stark shadow.
All here stands overcame;
Us to blame.
Most scream for a change…
Nothing.
But some count the
Seconds till
Sun… Rise!
Parker Carwile
The Sun: gone,
Withdrawn, our eyes see
Old vibrant blood, smeared and dry,
Left low and vast in drained sky.
All is Same,
Whose purpose was ease.
Their sleek, superb silhouettes
Tower all in lifeless sets.
Such backdrop does make them stand--
Out from shadows of deceit.
Edges are abrupt;
Columns: cut.
Their smoke and flame of our kind
Fudges the blood orange shine
And so it swallows
Us in night.
Deep blue is the Dark.
Overtaken are we
By the Dream.
Mystery surrounds.
We frantically search
For our sight.
Many choose to follow
The bright of ours that blinds
The Abyssal Wonder
We are leaving behind.
But steady Oh silver handle
Above hangs waiting, waiting.
Dare to grab hold It speaks
Seek true sight in me.
Come off the curb.
Further in
Unknown
Come…
Desolate is the Dark.
I stand lost.
I regret my stillness.
I fear now.
Rusted Herald handle
Hangs too low.
My sight: blocked, blocked by black:
Stark shadow.
All here stands overcame;
Us to blame.
Most scream for a change…
Nothing.
But some count the
Seconds till
Sun… Rise!
Who Am I? I Don’t Know
Savannah Woods
Who am I? I don't know.
I was born. “It's a girl!” I was pink.
I cried often. I'm still crying.
I grew up. I grew out. I'm still growing.
My heart broke. My heart swelled. It's still beating.
My heart's tenacious. So am I.
Physically, I'm weak.
My spine curves. My heart flutters. Blood doesn't pump.
Then I faint.
Then I fall.
Bruises litter me. But I heal.
I'm still alive. I'm still breathing.
My hair's purple. I'm only 5'3”.
I'm kinda fat. That's not me.
That's my reflection.
Who am I? I don't know.
I'm only 19.
I'm a child. I'm an adult.
I'm stuck in-between.
What are taxes? What's a 401K?
I know cartoons. I know comics. I like anime.
That isn't grownup. Is existentialism grownup?
I am trying.
I am failing.
I am drowning.
Breathe deeply, girl.
Take it easy. Anxiety isn't childish.
Kids don't worry. Worrying's for adults.
Am I grownup? Are zits grownup? Do grownups burp?
Is poetry grownup? My poetry's shit.
I hate myself.
Sometimes, I do. Often, I do.
I take medication.
Sometimes, I do. Often, I don't.
I don't know.
Am I pretty? I don't know.
I'm probably not.
Am I worthy? I don't know.
I'm probably not.
I contemplate suicide. Is that normal?
It's gotten better.
Who am I? I don't know.
Savannah Woods
Who am I? I don't know.
I was born. “It's a girl!” I was pink.
I cried often. I'm still crying.
I grew up. I grew out. I'm still growing.
My heart broke. My heart swelled. It's still beating.
My heart's tenacious. So am I.
Physically, I'm weak.
My spine curves. My heart flutters. Blood doesn't pump.
Then I faint.
Then I fall.
Bruises litter me. But I heal.
I'm still alive. I'm still breathing.
My hair's purple. I'm only 5'3”.
I'm kinda fat. That's not me.
That's my reflection.
Who am I? I don't know.
I'm only 19.
I'm a child. I'm an adult.
I'm stuck in-between.
What are taxes? What's a 401K?
I know cartoons. I know comics. I like anime.
That isn't grownup. Is existentialism grownup?
I am trying.
I am failing.
I am drowning.
Breathe deeply, girl.
Take it easy. Anxiety isn't childish.
Kids don't worry. Worrying's for adults.
Am I grownup? Are zits grownup? Do grownups burp?
Is poetry grownup? My poetry's shit.
I hate myself.
Sometimes, I do. Often, I do.
I take medication.
Sometimes, I do. Often, I don't.
I don't know.
Am I pretty? I don't know.
I'm probably not.
Am I worthy? I don't know.
I'm probably not.
I contemplate suicide. Is that normal?
It's gotten better.
Who am I? I don't know.
Who Can Swing the Highest?
Lacey Hanemann
And that’s how it goes,
you laugh and you lie
and your eyes get heavy.
You eat and you play and
you walk on tiptoes.
You swing and you jump
and you fly,
for a moment.
You laugh and you lie
and your eyes glaze over.
You eat and you play
and your feet ache.
You swing and you jump
and you land on your knees,
sand in your teeth.
And that’s how it goes,
but you never notice a change
because you never notice a moment.
And that’s how it goes,
your eyes never open.
Lacey Hanemann
And that’s how it goes,
you laugh and you lie
and your eyes get heavy.
You eat and you play and
you walk on tiptoes.
You swing and you jump
and you fly,
for a moment.
You laugh and you lie
and your eyes glaze over.
You eat and you play
and your feet ache.
You swing and you jump
and you land on your knees,
sand in your teeth.
And that’s how it goes,
but you never notice a change
because you never notice a moment.
And that’s how it goes,
your eyes never open.
Woman at the Tall Wooden Bridge
A. B. Harrison
She walks along the tall wooden bridge
High above a shallow creek.
I watch her as she walks along,
As I have every day for the past week.
Sitting at my usual park bench
I look up from my half read book.
She stops at the middle of the bridge
Peering over the side at the water.
Scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.
Hands placed gracefully on the rail.
There she stands for the world to watch
And gaze in awe at a living masterpiece.
There she stands for my eyes only:
A youthful beauty sculpted to perfection.
Slowly she climbs upon the rail
Arching her back with arms spread wide
She smiles with her head held high
As wind blows through her auburn hair.
Though she cannot tell, will never know
Her presence brings me peace.
Her eyes slowly open; smile disappears.
Wind stops blowing but colder I feel.
The sun slowly starts to set.
Skies fill with shades of blue and orange.
Suddenly, she steps off the ledge
As I watch helplessly from afar.
As she plummets to her river bed death,
A priceless vase has shattered.
A. B. Harrison
She walks along the tall wooden bridge
High above a shallow creek.
I watch her as she walks along,
As I have every day for the past week.
Sitting at my usual park bench
I look up from my half read book.
She stops at the middle of the bridge
Peering over the side at the water.
Scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.
Hands placed gracefully on the rail.
There she stands for the world to watch
And gaze in awe at a living masterpiece.
There she stands for my eyes only:
A youthful beauty sculpted to perfection.
Slowly she climbs upon the rail
Arching her back with arms spread wide
She smiles with her head held high
As wind blows through her auburn hair.
Though she cannot tell, will never know
Her presence brings me peace.
Her eyes slowly open; smile disappears.
Wind stops blowing but colder I feel.
The sun slowly starts to set.
Skies fill with shades of blue and orange.
Suddenly, she steps off the ledge
As I watch helplessly from afar.
As she plummets to her river bed death,
A priceless vase has shattered.
You’ve found a career, darling
John Sadler
I want to let you know that you are a movie star
You are
Mamie Van Doren and
Jayne Mansfield and
Jane Russell
You are a bombshell and you are sex in flesh
You are a bombshell like Marilyn Monroe
and you can’t wait to blow up
And when you do blow up the world will watch and say
“oh I love her”
I want to let you know that we could weaponized your beauty
And if we did
the world would pine for war
Trenches filled with smiling men would yell
“here comes the movie star”
John Sadler
I want to let you know that you are a movie star
You are
Mamie Van Doren and
Jayne Mansfield and
Jane Russell
You are a bombshell and you are sex in flesh
You are a bombshell like Marilyn Monroe
and you can’t wait to blow up
And when you do blow up the world will watch and say
“oh I love her”
I want to let you know that we could weaponized your beauty
And if we did
the world would pine for war
Trenches filled with smiling men would yell
“here comes the movie star”
